


but i'm reflecting light

by looks_a_scream



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Small Town, Anal Sex, Angst, Anxiety, Blow Jobs, Family Issues, Gilmore Girls AU, Kidfic, M/M, Mutual Pining, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Relationship(s), Past Suicide Attempt, Rimming, Slow Burn, Smut, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, bad timing, body image issues, tragic past
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 14:28:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 40,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29101776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/looks_a_scream/pseuds/looks_a_scream
Summary: Patrick Stump is the stuck-in-a-rut co-owner of Vaughn's Diner, living a quiet life in the middle of Mighty Falls, Illinois. Things aren't perfect but he's trying to make it work.Pete Wentz is the crashed-and-burned son of a hotel tycoon who moves to town on a new business venture. With him, he brings a bookworm son and a whole lot of baggage. He's just trying to get it right this time.---An AU inspired by Gilmore Girls.
Relationships: Frank Iero/Gerard Way, Frank Iero/Patrick Stump, Mikey Way/Pete Wentz, Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 29
Kudos: 24





	1. give up the ground under your feet

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there. I have been in the fandom a very, very long time, but it's been ages (read: at least a decade) since I've posted anything. My old fics are long since deleted, and I only held on to this account for reading purposes. Then, in quarantine, I ended up watching Gilmore Girls (a series I've loved since I was a kid) for probably the 20th time all the way through while also reading a lot of Peterick and, well, I guess I was inspired.
> 
> For those who are not GG fans, it doesn't matter. You won't need any of that knowledge to understand this fic. For those who are, I think you'll enjoy the parallels and references to trivia and things from the show. It should be fun and I'm really excited to be sharing it with everyone. I have other fics that I've been working on for a long time or toying with the idea of writing, so hopefully this will be the boost I need to write and share more. This is also my first chaptered fic, which is a little intimidating, but everything's outlined and ready to be written so mostly I'm just excited.
> 
> Comments are always appreciated. Enjoy!

Patrick Stump wakes up before the sun. He showers and dresses in corduroy pants, a stained Prince t-shirt, and a pilled maroon cardigan. His head he adorns with a dark grey flat cap and he slips his old, battered Chuck Taylors onto his feet. Without wasting time, he heads downstairs to open the diner.

Light has just started to filter through the wide front windows as he unlocks the door, pulls down the tattered vinyl chairs, wipes down the tops of the old Formica tables. There are flecks of gold throughout the laminate that catches the light, the shine enhanced by the cleaning product on Patrick’s rag. He noticed that last summer, which is hilarious. Twenty-five years coming into this place and there are still things waiting to surprise him.

Vaughn’s Diner sits on a quaint little corner in a quaint little Illinois town called Mighty Falls. It’s funny, because with a population below twenty-four hundred it certainly isn’t mighty, and there’s not a waterfall in sight. It is, however, ninety minutes outside of Chicago, with all the color and character you’d expect from a roadside town in middle America. People like to stop and take pictures and have lunch.

The diner was his father’s - and _his_ father’s, before him – and it was named for his great-grandfather. The storefront is all windows, looking out over the town square and nearly-two-hundred-year-old gazebo. The dining room takes up most of the interior – off-white wood paneling, dingy linoleum, and original tin roof – with a counter along the eastern wall. There are three doors also along that wall – one parallel to the front door that leads into the (impossibly tiny) kitchen; one at the end of the counter with the customer bathroom and staircase to Patrick’s apartment upstairs; and one directly next to that which opens into a small storage closet. It’s a modest place, well-worn but well-loved. Patrick knew from the time he turned six that one day the diner would be passed down to him, that he would be responsible for keeping the legacy alive. After two years of holding the reins, he didn’t think he was replacing Grandad in anybody’s hearts, but he at least hadn’t had to shutter the doors yet.

Patrick sets up a pot of regular and a pot of decaf to brew, then turns on the electric kettle for himself. He sips his tea while slicing up tomatoes and throws a pan of potatoes into the oven to roast. From the storage room, he brings a bag of flour and a carton of blueberries for scones. The dough proves while he takes inventory, and then he portions it and swaps the first batch out with the potatoes.

At six o’ clock sharp the first customers start trickling in. Breakfast is never overly busy and certainly never rushed. The same handful of townsfolk come in and claim their same tables every day. They order plates of egg and bacon, cup after cup of coffee, chattering away about the latest this and most interesting that. Patrick doesn’t listen. He pours the caffeine and prepares the omelets and keeps his head down. He successfully passes a couple of hours this way without anything more than a request for a refill. Maybe if he’s lucky, no one will talk to him today about anything important at all.

His luck, as it happens, does not extend that far. No sooner does he have the thought, the bell above the door chimes to signal the arrival of Gabe Saporta: chronic entrepreneur, notorious gossip, and dreaded village idiot (though Patrick would never call him that to his face). Patrick fumbles the coffee decanter back onto its burner, turning to Gabe with a sigh as the tall, gangly man wraps his spidery legs around a barstool.

“Patrick!” Gabe exclaims, eyes and mouth open wide.

Patrick lifts an eyebrow at him. “What can I do for you today, Gabe?”

“Have you heard?”

“Have I heard what?”

Gabe grins. “So, you _haven’t_ heard.”

“Look, Gabe, I gotta take a batch of scones out or they’re gonna burn. What haven’t I heard?”

“I just talked to Will—” Patrick heaves another sigh. Nothing good ever came from William Beckett. “—and he told me that someone bought the Twickham House!”

Patrick stops dead. “What? Wait, but—”

The bell above the door chimes and brings in the whirlwind of tousled brown hair and insufferable pretention that is William Beckett. He’s nearly as tall as Gabe, seating himself in a similarly gangly and awkward fashion at the counter while Patrick wonders what he did in a past life to deserve this.

Patrick levels William with his most withering stare. “You sold my house.”

William holds out his hands with a magnanimous grin. “The gentleman buying the old Stag Inn made an offer. Or, should I say, his _father_ made an offer.”

“Oooh, so it’s a trust-fund venture,” Gabe says thoughtfully. Patrick retreats to the kitchen to rescue the scones from the oven, only half-listening to them gossip.

“So it would seem,” William confirms. “The business partner is renting a house over on Peach from Mrs. Stadler, and rumor has it there’s also a _child_.” He says ‘child’ the way anyone else might say ‘body buried under the porch.’ Patrick carefully hefts a couple piping hot scones onto a plate and drops it in front of the two as he returns from the kitchen.

“There’s a _family_ moving into my house, then?” His gaze darts out the window, down the street where he can just see the front columns of the magnificent old place known as the Twickham House. It is registered with the state as a historic property, and Patrick has been in love with it since he was a child. He’s always thought, if he ever felt inclined to tie the knot and raise a kid or two, he would do it there.

“It was only _your_ house by verbal agreement, but it belongs to the _town_ ,” William sniffs. “As town selectman, I made the decision to sell. It’s Kingston Hotels, for god’s sake! I won’t even tell you what they gave me for it.” Patrick’s grimace remains firmly in place. William sighs and says charitably, “When you’re ready for it, you can make the guy an offer. I’m sure by _then_ the new inn will be a rousing success and he’ll be looking to move on to his next acquisition anyway.”

“I stayed at a Kingston in Cleveland once,” Gabe chimes in. “Softest sheets I’ve ever felt in my life.”

From the corner, Davey Abbott flicks his wrist in a gesture that typically signals the end of breakfast wave. Patrick grabs his notepad to start scrawling out checks, sparing a last sharp look for William and Gabe, who grin at him around bites of blueberry scone.

The diner empties, thankfully taking William and Gabe with it, and Patrick gets caught up on turning the tables over and prepping for lunch. There are burgers to portion and onions to slice, tuna salad to mix and potatoes to julienne, and then the lunch crowd comes and goes. In the aftermath, he manages to eat a quick salad of whatever veggies are about to go bad and sips an iced tea as he watches a moving van barrel down Main Street toward the Twickham House, some fully loaded foreign thing following behind. The night staff wanders in before he can watch for too long. He doesn’t manage to catch a glimpse of Mighty Falls’ newest residents.

“Hey man, heard about your house! Tough break,” Travie greets as he slides into the kitchen. Travie McCoy is Patrick’s co-owner and cook. His father was also the cook at Vaughn’s, and _his_ father, before him. As soon as Patrick took over the business, it only seemed fair to offer Travie a share. It’s nice having someone in it with him, someone who understands the pressure of upholding a family legacy, and also who he’s known for basically his entire life. They work well together, just like their fathers and grandfathers did, but unlike them, they do it as equals. Patrick opens, Travie closes. It works.

They have one employee, a spunky young local girl named Hayley whose parents own the antique store around the corner. She sidles up to Patrick, standing behind the register adding up tips from the morning. Her grin sparkles and choppy red hair whips his face as she pulls it back into a ponytail.

“I heard from Vicky the guy’s single,” she stage-whispers. Vicky is the mechanic across the square. Everyone in this town is a goddamn idle gossip.

“Which one?” Patrick stares down at the math on his notepad. He thinks he forgot to carry a one somewhere.

“The guy opening the inn!”

“Which one?” Patrick repeats absently, re-entering totals into his calculator with a frown. “There are _two_ guys opening the inn.”

Hayley huffs. “I don’t know, okay, I just know that one of them is a single dad who bought the Twickham House.” She nudges him with her elbow and Patrick smudges the ink on his notepad. Travie emerges from the back, his dark curls pulled back and stuffed under a hairnet. The lines of ink covering his arms are visible now that he’s ditched his hoodie and wrapped an apron around his model-esque frame, warm dark skin making the tattoos bolder. Patrick eyes his knuckles and thinks of his phone, upstairs.

“What does that have to do with me?” Patrick asks.

Hayley and Travie glance at each other before Travie answers, “It doesn’t. It’s just… interesting.”

“Sure,” Patrick agrees mildly. “It’s very, very interesting.” The bell above the door chimes. He gives them each a wry smile, heading for the stairs. “That’s my cue. Don’t burn anything down.” Travie sends him off with a middle finger.

He makes his way up to the apartment, the sounds of the impending dinner rush fading into silence. It’s a studio that used to be his father’s office, one large room with a small alcove off to the right where his bed is tucked away. Nothing fancy, or even very private, but it’s home. His cell phone is next to the bed where he left it charging. Patrick never brings his phone down into the diner with him while he’s working. It’s hard enough to enforce the “No Cell Phones” sign he posted behind the counter without blatantly breaking the rules himself. When the screen lights up, there’s one text message.

_we did it babe! 3 months down 3 to go – xo_

Patrick smiles over the tightening in his chest.

 _Hunky Dory_ always makes this weird popping sound when he sets the needle to the record’s grooves, but it’s one of his favorites. Bowie warbles as Patrick changes into sweats and forces himself through a yoga routine, squinting up at the video on his laptop when he can’t remember the proper position. Afterwards, sweaty but feeling accomplished, he bakes a sweet potato and eats it sitting on the edge of the bed. He leaves the plate to soak in the sink and stares at himself in the mirror, turning this way and that.

Patrick is small, sturdy, his body naturally soft and curved. He’s a nice-looking guy, he knows, long coppery hair falling around his face, his blue eyes alluring and his smile charming even if his demeanor isn’t always. That doesn’t make it easy to ignore the way his stomach presses against his waistband, the way his thighs brush together. The yoga and diet have helped, he can see narrow places now that were plush before summer. If he keeps it up, who knows, maybe in three months, he’ll have done enough…

Patrick turns away from his reflection, scratching at one of the reddish sideburns running from temple to jawline as he grabs up his phone again. He flicks to his recent calls and presses the fifth one. It rings a couple of times, then cuts off in the middle of the third one.

“Hey,” he says warmly in the pause that follows. “I miss you.”

*

When Pete Wentz’s father agreed to buy him an inn, he specifically requested something in the middle of nowhere. Getting away from the hustle and grind of Chicago was of the utmost importance. It clouds his brain and causes him to make irreparably bad life choices. So here they are in his white gold Audi, going thirty-five down a country lane into Mighty Falls, Illinois: the cutest stinkin’ town he’s ever laid eyes on.

From the seat behind him comes a hefty sigh and a swift kick of annoyance into his lower back, dulled through a cushion. Pete startles a little, heart leaping into his chest as his spine goes stiff straight.

“Alright, Emmy, come on,” Pete says, darting glances at the rearview mirror. The ten-year-old in the backseat rolls his chocolate brown eyes and heaves another sigh, the kind only uttered by those suffering the cruelest of fates. Pete has to fight off a grin despite his racing heart; no one could ever witness such over-dramatics and mistake him for anyone else’s child. “We’re almost there.”

“You said that _five hours ago_ ,” Emmy whines.

“We haven’t even been driving for two, bud,” Pete says. There’s no way he even _could_ drive that long. “I promise we’re almost there, just a few more minutes.”

“Will they get my books off the truck tonight?” Emmy asks, tipping his forehead against the glass of the car window, watching forlornly as the town slips by. An antique store, a grocery, a newsstand, an empty little restaurant on the corner and then a sprawling town square with a picturesque gazebo right in the middle of it. Emmy looks unimpressed. “I wanna start _Ghost Beach_.”

Emmy is an avid reader, way more advanced than Pete was at his age. In third grade, he was already at an eighth-grade level. It’s all Pete can do to keep him in new reading material. At this point, he’s read nearly every book series under the sun that’s appropriate for his age, and some that aren’t. Pete found his old Goosebumps collection in his parents’ garage just before the move. At the time, it seemed like a miracle – there were at least sixty books in the series. A week later and Emmy’s already almost halfway through. Pete’s considering giving him _War and Peace_ next, just to see how far he gets.

Pete himself never possessed much of an interest in academics. That is not to say that he is unintelligent; the very opposite, in fact. Back in school, Pete was a good test taker and an even better suck-up, so he passed his classes easily. But nothing ever seemed to grab him back then. Inevitably, when it became apparent that college was but a pipe dream, he fell into the family business.

Pete’s father – Peter Wentz – owns Kingston Hotels, which boasts a luxury stay at a midscale price in every major metropolitan area in the Midwest. Their establishments are modern and amenable with spa treatments, round-the-clock room service, and free HBO. To say that the Wentz family is successful… well, that would be a serious understatement. Pete is the only one of Peter’s three children to follow in his father’s footsteps. He started in high school, before he had even graduated, and worked his way up over the years to run their flagship hotel in downtown Chicago. Like most children, he’s never been entirely sure if he’s made his father proud, but with this latest venture he feels like he’s finally got a real shot.

The moving van pulls into the driveway of their new home, and Pete parks along the curb. When he glances in the rearview, Emmy has his face against the glass, staring up with his mouth gaping open. Pete grins. “Home, sweet home!”

“Wow,” Emmy breathes.

It really is.

The house is _large_ , even larger than it looked in the pictures. It’s neoclassical, with a red brick exterior accented by stark white columns, a porch, and a balcony along the front. There are rooms extending out on either side, and Pete can just make out the expansive backyard. It reminds him of home, a little, a smaller version of his parent’s house with less renovations. The home is historic, according to the information from his father’s realtor, and it certainly looks it, in a good way. In a way that loosens something in Pete’s chest, just a fraction. In a way that makes him feel like he’s making the right decision for once.

Emmy rushes out of the car to get a closer look, Pete trailing behind him. The movers are already out of the truck, setting down ramps to start loading in the furniture. Pete calls out to Emmy to be careful, not to get in the way. The young boy disappears around the back of the house in a flurry of giggles and frizzy black hair.

Pete hauls their suitcases from the trunk. The movers are making quick work of the furniture, which tracks because they don’t really have a lot. Their previous home was a loft apartment in Logan Square, open concept with big white walls. His ex-wife, Darcy, was something of an artist and preferred minimalism, always trying to keep their home as tidy as a museum. Pete, on the other hand, liked to collect things. Records, books, figurines; friends, experiences, numbers (when he was young). He doesn’t consider himself a hoarder, but he has a hard time parting with things. Emmy seems to have inherited this trait, which means there are way more boxes of _stuff_ on the truck than there is actual furniture.

Following in the wake of two bulky guys with his mattress on a dolly, Pete takes his first look around. The interior of the old house is more impressive than the outside. Each room is massive, high ceilings and intricate wallpaper, an enormous white fireplace in the living room that Pete spends ten minutes staring at. The design carved along the top, under the mantle, and down along each side is breathtakingly intricate, flowers and faces and twisting vine. He wonders dizzily how they’ll manage to make it feel like home. At the top of the stairs, he finds the overwhelmingly large master bedroom with the original canopy bed. As he rolls his suitcase to sit up against the dark wooden footboard, his phone starts to ring. The cheery, high-pitched tone echoes like crazy, immediately filling the room. He digs it out of his pocket, perching on the edge of the mattress. It’s surprisingly soft.

“Hey, Andy,” Pete says sunnily.

“You make it in yet?” replies his business partner, Andy Hurley. There’s a tone of annoyance in his voice, but Pete never knows if it’s real or a put-on to maintain his status as the more responsible of the two. “It’s almost three.”

“Yeah, yeah, we just pulled up,” he says.

“Perfect! You should come over here and see this place.”

“I can’t leave now, dude, the movers are still here and Emmy’s in the yard… there’s no one to watch him, I mean, I’m not gonna leave him alone with those guys.”

Andy sighs. “Well, the town selectman is here, and you should really meet him. It would do a lot to get us welcomed by the town. And…” he lowers his voice. “…aside from that, this dude is a _trip._ ”

Pete grins. “Can’t wait. There’s plenty of time for that, dude. Tomorrow, okay? Give us a night to just… settle in, you know? It was a long drive.”

Andy pauses for a beat too long, then lets out a low noise of acquiescence. “Alright. Tomorrow morning? Early?”

“Aye aye,” Pete agrees. “Bright and early.”

The phone call leaves him feeling drained. There is a mountain of work to do with the inn, even without having seen the actual space yet. His father’s realtor did the footwork and sent them all kinds of pictures and videos, coordinated inspections, vouched for the condition of things. But there were always unforeseen problems. They are prepared to be unprepared, but it doesn’t keep Pete’s shoulders from tightening, his breath from drawing short. His father’s disappointed face flashes through his mind. He breathes deep and reminds himself that he’s making the right choice. This is _good_.

It takes a couple hours longer for everything to get unloaded and the movers to leave. Emmy runs around in the yard for most of the afternoon while Pete unpacks the essentials. The internet hasn’t been set up yet, but he digs out the Blu-Ray player and a stack of movies. He also locates the box with Emmy’s books. Pete manages to find a pizza place on Google that delivers to them, and by the time Emmy comes in tired and hungry, he’s got the living room feeling at least slightly familiar, if still a bit empty and echo-y. They curl up together on the black leather couch Pete has had since before Emmy was born and watch _Iron Man_ and try not to get pepperoni grease on the blankets.

Emmy falls asleep before the movie is over. Pete puts on the sequel when it finishes, tucking himself back under the blanket with his son, arm tight around him and his face pressed into his hair. He feels the presence of the house around them, the strangeness of the air on his skin. Eyes closed, he breathes deep, listening to the sound of Robert Downey Jr. on his TV and beneath that, Emmy’s soft snores.

They’re here. They’re both here.

When he wakes up, the room is pitch black. His phone tells him that it’s almost midnight when he manages to find it on the floor. Emmy stays firmly asleep, god bless him, so Pete carries him upstairs, blinking the grit from his own eyes. At the top of the stairs, he pauses, looking down the hall to the darkened doorway of Emmy’s new room. After a moment, he continues into the master bedroom and tucks Emmy under the comforter there. It might be too much of a shock if he wakes up in an unfamiliar room all alone.

Pete ambles into the attached bathroom, fumbling with his toiletry bag. The routine of brushing his teeth and washing his face is comforting. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to go back to sleep, but he slips under the covers anyway and stares at the top of the canopy.

It takes a few minutes for the atmosphere to settle, for the buzzing in Pete’s brain to calm to a murmur. In the wake of that, he realizes that he can hear a noise coming from outside. His eyes find the window that faces out toward the town square. Somehow, focusing his eyes on it helps to resolve the sound in his brain. It’s a guitar, strumming a quick tune, nothing that he recognizes. Over that, he picks up a smooth, clear voice, singing with confidence. The melody is upbeat, but the notes are in a sad, minor key. Pete wishes he could hear the words. As he has the thought, he drifts back to sleep.

*

Patrick wakes up before the sun. He showers and dresses in blue jeans, a plain black tee and a grey knit hat. He slips on his Chucks and he heads downstairs to open the diner. He arranges the tables, roasts potatoes, prepares a batter for cinnamon waffles. He brews coffee – and a tea for himself – while he takes inventory. He’s just finishing a half a grapefruit when the clock ticks over to six and the first customer comes through the door.

It’s a man he doesn’t know, with Mr. and Mrs. Anderson trailing in behind him. He is slightly taller than Patrick, which isn’t that alarming considering Patrick is only five foot five. The man’s long, wavy chestnut hair falls to his shoulders, face adorned with a neatly trimmed beard of a reddish color. His eyes are hidden behind black glasses. Patrick assesses his lean frame as he approaches the counter, clad in a Pantera t-shirt, Dickies, and colorful tattoos covering his arms from the backs of his hands upwards. The old folks steadily trickling in whisper to each other as they find their usual seats, glancing sidelong at the newcomer.

“Hey, man, do you happen to have green tea?” the man asks, sliding onto a stool.

Patrick lifts a brow at him, intrigued. “Uh, yeah, actually, I do. Let me just… heat up some water.” He shuffles over to the kettle, firing it up. Over his shoulder, he watches as the man picks up a menu, reading over the first few selections with both eyebrows raised and a critical tilt to his mouth.

“Anything I can get started for you?” Patrick asks politely in case the guy is a tourist. It’s important to be nice to them; they usually tip well when he can pull off the small-town charm thing.

The man shakes his head. “That’s alright.” After a moment, he holds out his hand. “I’m Andy Hurley. I’m taking over the old inn over on Evergreen.”

Patrick shakes his hand automatically. “Patrick Stump. I own this place.” Over Andy’s shoulder, he notes that all eyes are on them. “Uh, don’t be alarmed, but everyone’s kind of staring.”

Surprisingly enough, Andy shrugs. “It’s cool. I was a punk kid in rural Wisconsin. I’m used to it.”

Patrick can’t help his smile, and can’t stop himself from asking, “Are you the one with the kid?”

“Wow, I guess that’s the same then, too,” Andy says with a laugh.

“Yeah, it’s a pretty barren grapevine, people latch onto what they can.” Patrick unwraps the teabag and drops it into a wax-coated paper cup. He tucks the tag under the cardboard sleeve to keep it in place, carefully pours the now-scalding water, and leaves it steeping for a few minutes. He quickly makes his rounds to the tables, filling up coffee mugs and confirming that everyone will be having their usual, ignoring Andy’s eyes studying him.

“Pete has the kid,” he says as Patrick slips back behind the counter.

“I’m sorry?”

“My business partner, Pete Wentz,” Andy explains. “He has a son.”

Okay.

Look.

Here’s the thing… Patrick does not like to engage in gossip. He really, truly does his utmost best every day to avoid getting involved in other people’s business. _Especially_ some Z-List regional socialite “celebrity,” and not even anyone he actually knows. Mighty Falls is a very sleepy place, is all. Every now and then, his brain can’t help catching snippets of conversation, latching on to anything even remotely interesting, even if that happens to be tabloid gossip from the PTA meetings on Wednesdays. Which is why he gets a clear vision in his mind’s eye of a flashy magazine, an obnoxiously handsome face, eyes the color of hot Earl Grey, splashed across the cover with a headline screaming about party animals and models.

Pete Wentz, as Patrick understands, is the son of the tycoon who owns Kingston Hotels. It shouldn’t be _that_ much of a surprising to him, then, that it is Pete Wentz who has apparently moved into _his_ dream house, _down the street from him,_ but he feels suddenly knocked off-kilter. He fumbles a plastic lid onto Andy’s cup of tea and passes it over. “So, that guy actually exists in real life?”

Andy laughs like it’s been startled out of him. “Yeah, he sure does.” He sips carefully at the tea, handing over a five with an appreciative hum. “Keep the change. If you do happen to see him, though, can you remind him that he agreed to meet me at the inn, early?” Andy pauses at the door, lifting an eyebrow at Patrick. “I assume you know what he looks like.”

For some reason, Patrick’s face goes bright red. “Uh. Yeah.”

“Thanks, nice to meet you, Patrick!” With that, Andy’s out the door in a flourish, and Patrick gets to work on his orders. The breakfast crowd peters out into his pre-lunch downtime, which he has more of today because Travie made chili last night. No one turns down Travie’s chili, so he won’t have to cook much. With little prep work to do, he has a leisurely early lunch, grilling up a portobello cap and indulging in a Diet Coke. As he’s taking the last sip, standing behind the register, halfway between the dining room and the kitchen, the bell above the door rings out.

When he looks up, he almost chokes.

Pete Wentz is stumbling through the door, a flurry of bright purple hoodie and gawdy phone charms, black hair buzzed short, his slim, muscular body shown off with a tight pair of jeans and a fitted teal polo. Behind him drifts a smaller version of himself, only with hair curling long around his neck and his clothes slouching off his frame, nose buried in a book. Patrick tries not to stare as the two of them approach the counter, clattering onto the stools closest to the register. Pete turns and locks eyes with him immediately, an exaggerated grin taking over his offensively symmetrical features.

“Hi there, can I get some coffee?”

Patrick blinks, his brain rolling over like molasses. “Wha—?”

“Coffee,” Pete repeats. Then, “Coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee.”

The dark-haired boy sitting next to him looks up from the book – something with some kind of superhero in a purple suit on the cover – and lets out a laugh, adding, “Coffee, coffee, coffee!”

His brain comes back online. Pulling the brim of his cap a little lower, Patrick grabs a coffee mug from the back counter and the full coffee decanter, filling the cup halfway. The boy stares up at him expectantly, and when Patrick hazards a glance, Pete is giving him an identical look. Patrick scoffs. “I’m not giving the kid coffee.”

Pete frowns at his son – who doesn’t even look that disappointed, just returns to his book – and then turns back to Patrick with a weird, imploring expression. “A Coke, then. But maybe you could put it in a coffee mug, for me?” His pout melts into a small, private smile. Patrick’s eyes go wide, so thrown off that he just grabs a can of Coke from the cooler and puts it in a coffee mug as requested. Pete grins at him.

Patrick tries to brush it off. “Anything else?”

“Yeah, a couple stacks of pancakes.”

Patrick huffs a sigh. “We’re on lunch…” Pete immediately fixes his face back into an over-the-top pout, thick lower lip sticking out as far as he can get it. He nudges at his son with his elbow until the kid looks up again and copies his face. Patrick glowers, then goes on, “…but I think I have some batter left over.” Pete cheers loudly as he heads back into the kitchen to whip up the pancakes. He ignores the fact that he has to make a quick batch of batter on the fly.

Pete and his son stay as the beginning of the lunch crowd comes in. Patrick is distracted for a good hour before he remembers they’re still there. As he gathers the empty plates in front of them, he clears his throat. Pete turns his attention to him, and he feels it like the hot beam of a spotlight. “You’re… Pete Wentz, right?”

For a moment, Pete looks like a deer caught in the headlights. His whole body seizes, almost quick enough that Patrick doesn’t notice, but the smile that follows clicks into place a half-second too late, a little too purposefully, and gives him away. His voice aims for casual, and mostly succeeds, when he teases, “Aw, no fair, you know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

“It’s… it’s Patrick. I’m one of the owners here.” It’s unnecessary to say, but Pete’s smile gets a little more natural. Patrick flushes but says cautiously, “Andy said you were supposed to meet him at the inn early.”

Before the sentence is fully out, Pete is guffawing loud enough that half the patrons turn to look at him funny, including his own son. “He’s already got you relaying his messages. Classic!” As his laughter calms, he levers his mug at Patrick and asks for a refill. Patrick pours it and goes back to his diner duties. Whatever, he did what Andy asked him to. If Pete Wentz decides to stand up his business partner, well, Patrick supposes that’s the risk of getting involved with rich, manipulative, charming, handsome assholes.

Forty minutes later, Pete and his son are still sitting there, and Patrick has refilled Pete’s cup two more times, each one beckoned out of him with a quirk of lips and a flutter of eyelashes. The lunch crowd is dying off, the clock ticking further and further past noon. Finally, in the lull before final soda refills and requests for checks, Patrick leans against the register and aims a disapproving look at Pete, who just fixes his smile and holds his mug out again. Patrick shakes his head. “No way, that’s your fourth refill, you’re gonna burn out your whole nervous system at this point.” In the pause he takes, he notices Pete’s phone start to ring, managing to make out Andy’s name on the display before Pete dismisses the call and turns his phone over. Patrick hesitates, but finally ventures, “Uh, shouldn’t you be getting over to the inn?”

Pete turns a little green, but nods. “Yeah… yeah, I should. Um. Can I ask you a huge favor?”

If Patrick were in his right mind, he would respond with a resounding, “Absolutely not.” He doesn’t know this person, outside of some very out-of-context paparazzi photos that he pretends he hasn’t seen and judged, even though everyone within a hundred-mile radius has. Based on those facts alone, he should refuse. But something about the way Pete’s face is pinched, the way he worries over his bottom lip with his teeth, clearly has him messed up in the brain as he feels himself nod.

Pete relaxes a little. “Um, if I could leave Emmy here? Just for a little while…”

“Emmy?”

“Oh, yeah!” The grin is back as Pete throws an arm around his son’s shoulders, much to the dismay of the kid, who grimaces and tries to pull away. “This is my son, Emmett! Emmy. You know, I always say, I’ll never get an EGOT, but at least I have an Emmy!” He laughs, way too loud, forced in a way that must scratch his throat, leaning back toward Patrick. His grin falters and his voice lowers. “But, um, yeah, I don’t have a babysitter yet and school doesn’t start until Monday… it would just be for a few hours, tops, and he’ll literally just sit here and read the whole time. He has like five more of those Goosebumps books in his bag, like, I swear, you won’t have to do anything at all, and I can… I don’t know, I can pay for the counter space or something, since you’ll lose out on that customer, if that’s what you’re worried about. Obviously, I’ll pay for whatever he eats or drinks, too. Like you can keep the Cokes coming, I have a decent dental plan so no worries if he gets a cavity. Andy’s just really gonna kill me if I don’t get over there soon, but I hate leaving the kid alone. I wouldn’t ask if I had any other option, really—”

When Patrick realizes that Pete is not going to stop talking unless he _makes_ him, he heaves a sigh, pressing his fingers between his eyes to ward off any impending headaches, and reaches out a hand, resting his fingers an inch away from Pete’s on the countertop. The nervous chatter cuts off immediately, Pete’s eyes wide, hopeful, mouth still slightly open. Patrick pulls his hand away and says gruffly, “The kid can stay. As long as _you_ leave. You’re giving me a migraine.”

It takes a moment, but Pete’s mouth twitches into a smile and then stretches further into a laugh. “Thank you, thank you so much! Hey, what’s your sign?”

“My what?”

“Your sign, you know, your zodiac?”

“Oh.” Patrick honestly can’t remember. It’s not something he cares about, even a little bit. “Um… I’m not sure. Late April.”

Pete gives him a mega-watt grin but doesn’t reply. When Patrick returns from passing out checks, he’s gone, Emmy in his place closest to the register, taking up about as little space as a human possibly could. His book now has a picture of a kid turning into a werewolf on the cover.

“Those things don’t give you nightmares?” he asks.

Emmy shrugs a shoulder. “No. It’s not real.” He turns a page. “You can’t be scared of things that aren’t real.” Then he blinks up at Patrick, wise-beyond-his-years, says, “Sorry about Dad. He’s a spaz but he means well,” and goes back to the book.

Patrick has no regrets about letting this kid hang out. He turns to go and start gathering empty plates, but his eye catches on a folded-up napkin tucked under the ketchup bottle. His first instinct is to throw it away. As he picks it up, something tells him otherwise, and he unfolds it to find a mess of inky scrawl, poorly spelled and without punctuation.

 _sep 7 th taurus  
_ _u will meet a hansom stranger  
_ _keep giving him coffee_  
_he will be ur frend 4 ever  
_ _xoxo_

*

The Stag Inn on Evergreen Road was opened in 1954 by Mr. and Mrs. Shelby, who ran the place successfully for decades. Eventually, though, Mr. Shelby passed away, and while Mrs. Shelby and their daughter Emma kept the inn going for a while after, it wasn’t quite the same. The inn closed in 1996 and was left to grow wild, though Mrs. Shelby never had the heart to sell the property. When she died the previous year, Emma began to look for potential buyers, and that’s where Kingston Hotels came in.

Pete’s vision is to create someplace tranquil and quaint and affordable, with all of the comforts of home in a charming little town where people can go antiquing, maybe some horses for riding or a small menagerie of animals, even. Kids love animals. Just a nice, family-friendly place to escape to. Andy contributes his five-star cooking and aims to develop a completely organic, vegan menu so good that no one will even miss the meat options. Having tasted all of Andy’s food many times over, Pete thinks it won’t be an issue.

The inn sits at the end of a wooded lane, off of the main part of Evergreen Road. It backs up to two farms – a vegetable farm to the West and an alpaca farm to the East. The alpacas were, unsurprisingly, a huge selling point. Pete can’t wait to get Emmy out here to see them. As he pulls his car into the overgrown grass next to Andy’s white Prius, he realizes that’s gonna be a long way off.

The inn itself is an expansive yellow Victorian. The once-white trim is rotting and falling off, sections of the massive wraparound porch completely caved in. There are vines and tree roots wrapping their way around the roof shingles and foundation, respectively. Windowpanes are dusty and broken. He can only imagine what the inside looks like. She’s an impressive old girl just the same, and just the sight of her gives Pete this supreme sense of belonging, just like it did when he looked at the pictures from the realtor.

Andy is standing on the steps of the porch waiting for him, arms crossed. He looks pissed.

“Hey, sorry,” Pete says before he’s even halfway out of his car.

“Yeah, yeah,” Andy replies. “What was the hold up this time?”

The long reeds of grass that make up the front lawn crunch under Pete’s sneakers as he carefully wades his way toward the porch. “Uh… Emmy, man. I had to figure out what to do with him.” He shoots Andy a grin, tumbling out of the brush at the foot of the steps. “Luckily, I charmed that buzzkill guy at the diner into letting him hang out for a bit.”

“Oh, yeah, I met him this morning. He seems –”

“Like he’s got a stick up his ass?”

Andy pauses, then smiles back at him in a weird, placating way. “Should I be concerned that you’re already thinking about his ass?”

Pete splutters, looking away. “No way! I’m not—” He scoffs, feeling a sharp pull in his chest, a catch in his voice. “You know I’m not… thinking about _that_ …”

“Hey.” Andy’s voice is soft, just like his eyes when Pete meets them. “You wanna check out the inside?”

Pete takes a breath, counts to five, and follows Andy in, taking care to avoid the holes in the floor.

*

The sky has turned a soft pink interspersed with pales of blue when Pete returns to the diner. Most of the tables are occupied, but the counter is empty except for Emmy, right where he left him. Instead of reading, though, he’s kneeling up on the stool, intensively pouring salt from a large blue box into the glass shakers arranged in a neat line in front of him. A girl with fiery red hair flits around the dining room, keeping one eye on Emmy as she fills water glasses and laughs with the regulars.

Pete hasn’t made it to the counter yet when Patrick comes hustling out of the kitchen, still looking behind him and yelling, “Yeah, yeah, okay, I’m _going_ —” He freezes for a moment when he turns and sees Pete there, then schools his face into a disgruntled frown. “Oh, _there_ you are.”

“Hey, sorry,” Pete says immediately, for the second time today.

“Dad!” Emmy shouts, spinning around to smile at him. “Look! Hayley let me help!”

“Hey, bud, that’s great.” Pete slides onto the stool next to him. “You finish all your books already?”

To his surprise, Emmy shakes his head. “I finished one and then we ate sandwiches, and then Hayley and Travie came and I’ve been helping.”

“We?”

“Me and Patrick.” Emmy says it like, ‘Duh!’ but Pete feels a little floored. He looks up to see Patrick busying himself with the day’s receipts, hiding most of his face with a shield of fine red-blond hair, bushy sideburns, grey knit cap. He’s definitely listening. Pete clears his throat primly and forces himself not to smile when Patrick reacts overdramatically, dropping the receipts and tipping his head back with a sigh, eyes closed. He fixes Pete with a put-upon stare.

“Haven’t I done enough for you today?”

“Just one more cup of coffee, and I’m out of your hair,” Pete purrs with a pout.

Patrick flinches. “How can you drink _coffee_ , it’s almost six-thirty!”

“It’s the secret to my success, Patty, my mind is always working.”

“Don’t call me that.”

Emmy laughs. “Like Peppermint Patty, Dad!”

Patrick’s frown turns homicidal. Pete laughs, too. The red-haired girl comes sweeping behind the counter, gently shoving Patrick out of her way to grab some rolls of silverware. She spots Pete and smiles widely at him. “Aw, are you Emmy’s dad?”

“Yeah, I’m Pete.”

“Hayley. It’s so nice to meet you! Emmy’s been a _huge_ help and we’ve been having a blast hanging out, right buddy?”

It may be the most adorable thing Pete’s ever seen when his son’s face turns bright red and he hides it behind his dad’s shoulder. He nods, though, and mutters out a quiet, “Yeah.”

With a grin, Hayley grabs two plates piled with fries and sandwiches from a tall, tattooed guy with caramel skin and a mass of curly black hair tucked up into a hairnet. The guy nods at Pete as he turns back into the kitchen, eyeing him critically. Hayley sets off towards the far table, hissing, “Get out of my way, I swear to _God_ , why are you even still here?” at Patrick as he presses himself against the register to make room for her.

“Alright, dude, we should get going,” Pete says. Emmy finishes the last of the saltshakers and starts to gather up his backpack. To Patrick, Pete says, “Let me know what I owe you, we can get out of your hair.”

For once, Patrick’s reaction isn’t one of annoyance and hostility. His face is neutral as he shrugs a nonchalant shoulder. “How about I just start you a tab? I take it you plan on sticking around here a while.”

It’s a little thing, really, but it eases the tension in Pete’s shoulders just enough. “Yeah. Yeah, we do.”

*

Over the course of the weekend, Pete and Emmy settle into a solid routine. They go to Vaughn’s in the late morning, in the lull before lunchtime. Pete has as many cups of coffee as Patrick will allow (he typically starts griping about it after the third refill) and Emmy has chocolate chip pancakes or eggs and bacon arranged in a smiley face (at Pete’s request). In the afternoon, Pete meets up with Andy either at the inn or at Andy’s new house, where they talk game-plans and hiring processes and potential vendors. It’s mentally exhausting, but it keeps Pete’s blood pumping. In the evening, he retrieves Emmy from the diner. They stay to eat dinner, mostly because there’s not a lot of other game in town, and there’s definitely no food at the house.

Patrick always serves them, Hayley flitting around behind him huffing in annoyance and cutting him sharp glances while Patrick staunchly ignores her. Pete almost wonders if they’re a couple from the way they gripe at each other, except that Hayley is a little young. Also, Pete gets the distinct impression that Patrick wouldn’t be interested even if she were older. Maybe it’s the way his eyes linger on Travie’s arms whenever he pops up to the kitchen door to ring the service bell, a plate of hearty food in each hand. Patrick first introduced Travie to Pete as his partner. Pete starts to wonder in how many ways that term applies.

There’s not a whole lot of time to think about it in those first couple of days. Aside from the inn, Emmy is starting at his new school. Pete has to go in with him at eight on Monday morning to meet the principal. It’s the kind of thing Darcy would have done, before. Pete is terrified, so he took all of his nice clothes to the dry cleaner, determined to make a good impression. Patrick didn’t seem to think it was a big deal, and for that matter, neither did Emmy, but by Sunday evening, Pete works himself up into a frenzy, twitching from too much coffee and too little sleep.

His insomnia is mainly anxiety-induced, but what also isn’t helping is the troubadour in the town square. That’s what Pete has taken to calling the person in his head. Every night around midnight, he hears them strumming, singing soulful and bright. He can’t help but lie awake and listen, for the hour or sometimes two, until the troubadour packs up and goes home. In the early hours of Monday morning, as the last minor chord dissipates in the air, the sleepless nights catch up to him, and Pete crashes, hard.

There are no dreams, and he startles awake hours later, the sun shining brightly through the windows of the balcony door and Emmy standing in the doorway looking adorable in his school uniform but profoundly unimpressed.

“We’re going to be late,” he says flatly when their eyes meet.

“Wha—?” Pete is facedown in his pillow. He lifts up onto an elbow and blinks blearily at his phone. His phone that says it’s 7:58am. “Fuck!” He jumps out of bed, his brain struggling to boot up as quickly as he needs it to. “Shit!” Slamming open his closet door, Pete grapples with empty hangers before he remembers that all of his good clothes are at the dry cleaners. He was supposed to get up early to pick them up. “ _Dammit!_ ”

“ _Dad_ ,” Emmy whines.

“Go get in the car,” Pete says, brain whirring, hand flapping in his son’s direction. “Start it up, I’ll be there in three minutes.” Emmy sighs, loud and overdramatic, and disappears from the doorway. Pete’s brain stops, stutters, starts again. “And don’t repeat anything you just heard me say!”

Emmy’s groan echoes through the cavernous front hall, and then the front door slams behind him. Pete scrapes together something resembling an outfit, swishes some mouthwash, and bolts out the door.

*

Patrick nearly has a heart attack when Pete stumbles into the diner two hours later, pulling off his jacket to hook under the counter. He stares at him, blue-gold eyes wide behind the lenses of his glasses, mouth hanging open. Under a sweep of red-blond bangs and shadowed by the brim of his cap, his gaze travels in a distinct path from Pete’s face to his feet to his face again. His cheeks are pink when their eyes meet. Huh.

“You wore _that_ to your son’s school?” he demands. With the pencil in his right hand, he stabs at the air in Pete’s direction. “Your shirt is about blowjobs!”

Mrs. Jameson at the table closest to them turns to look. Pete flinches, looking down at himself. Out of his closet this morning, he grabbed one of his old muscle tanks, faded black and riddled with holes, the words “Suck My Richard” printed neatly in the middle, along with a pair of navy gym shorts that were so worn in that they barely clung to his hips, only hanging on by the grace of the universe. Admittedly, it’s not the most appropriate thing to wear in public. You can definitely see his nipple through one of the rips in his shirt. Thank god he buzzed his hair short, or else it would be frizzing and sticking up in wild patterns. He looks like exactly the kind of rich, lazy asshole that people assume he is.

Pete slides onto the stool with a groan and recounts his entire unfortunate morning as Patrick pours him cups of coffee, hoping he conveys the exact levels of humiliation he felt, introducing himself to Emmy’s principal. It doesn’t escape him that Patrick is looking at his arms, sneaking covert glances at the muscle over his ribs, exposed by the open sides of the shirt. Maybe Travie is just a business partner after all.

Eventually, he has to leave to meet Andy, stopping to pick up his dry cleaning along the way. They meet at the inn and Andy gives Pete a reprise of Patrick’s scolding until he ducks into one of the dilapidated bathrooms and changes into his best grey suit. Andy tuts approvingly when he comes back out.

“ _That’s_ how you should have looked this morning,” he says.

Pete rolls his eyes. “Tell me about it. I had it all planned out, man. They’re gonna make me join the fucking booster club or something to prove I’m not a total train wreck. I can’t _believe_ I overslept.”

They have a small fold-out table and three rickety chairs set up in the dining room, blueprints and spec sheets and all manner of other papers strewn across it. It’s really the only room that they can spend any prolonged amount of time in. Andy is itching to start planning out the kitchen, Pete can tell, but the contractor hasn’t declared it safe yet, so for now they conduct business in the dining room. Today they are meeting with a guy from the neighboring vegetable farm, hoping to come up with some kind of co-op situation for produce. Pete collapses into one of the chairs, taking a long pull of the to-go coffee he had finagled out of Patrick before he left.

Andy eyes the cup and the way Pete’s fingers tremble around it. “You should lay off on the coffee, man, maybe then you’ll actually get some sleep and things like this won’t happen.”

Pete scoffs on a laugh. “Christ, you’re just as bad as Patrick.”

“Patrick?”

“Yeah, man, he’s always giving me shit for drinking too much coffee. In his defense, he totally cut me off last night, but obviously not soon enough.”

Andy pauses. “How much time are you spending at that diner, exactly?”

Pete shrugs, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. “Um, not much, I mean… most meals, I guess. I haven’t had a chance to buy groceries yet, and Emmy likes the food there. I think he has a crush on the server girl, too, it’s pretty cute.” He takes another sip of coffee, avoiding Andy’s eyes. He can practically hear the gears turning in his friend’s head.

“Pete.”

“Yes, Andy?”

Andy scrubs a hand across his eyes in exasperation. “Nothing. Just… be careful, okay?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing!” Andy huffs, shuffling some of the mess of papers into a half-hearted pile. “I just mean, like, you know how you get.”

Pete glares at him. “How I _get?”_

“Yeah, dude,” Andy says gently. “Like… you go all in. Which is something that is great about you, don’t get me wrong, it’s why we’re in business together. Hell, it’s why we’re _friends_ , it’s just… it can be a lot, for some people. We _just_ got here. You know?”

It feels pretty unfair of Andy to jump to conclusions like that. A part of Pete wants to lash out a little bit, the pump of his heart defensive and brash. He takes a breath – Andy doesn’t mean it like that. He’s not criticizing, he’s not doubting, he’s just looking out for him. He’s a good friend. Pete thinks all of these things, over and over again, and then breathes in and out deeply, and nods.

“I know.” Pete fiddles with the lid of his coffee cup. “It’s nothing. I’m not even thinking about that.”

“You’re not,” Andy agrees. He gives Pete a small, encouraging smile.

The moment passes, the air in the room shifts, and then the guy from Trohman Farms is knocking on the door, and they get to work.

*

It’s a productive day for them. Joe Trohman turns out to be a cool guy, laidback and amicable right off the bat. The three of them get along well, and spend only half of the early afternoon talking business before the conversation devolves into the Chicago hardcore scene and the different bands they were all into as teenagers. Joe is a little younger and grew up out here in the sticks, but he still somehow knows about the bands Pete and Andy like. The two of them even had their own band, in the early days.

Pete and Andy met washing dishes together at Kingston Chicago, his father’s flagship, both fresh out of high school. It only lasted a few months before Andy got pulled up in the kitchen ranks and Pete moved on to running room service orders. They stayed tight, though, and eventually started their band Arma Angelus to expel some pent-up frustrations and keep themselves on the straightedge path. (For Pete, maybe a little bit to piss off his dad, too.) They were motivated guys with big dreams and the scene fueled them.

Arma Angelus got some traction, gained a small amount of notoriety and a little following, but it was mostly due to the fact of who Pete is, who Pete’s _family_ is, so no one took it too seriously. It all fell apart eventually anyway, as they continued to climb their respective ladders and life began to happen, deteriorating completely when Pete broke his edge. There was a lot going on, back then. He fucked up. But the band was fun while it lasted.

“Wild that you even heard of us all the way out here,” Pete says to Joe.

Joe waves a hand. “It was all Patrick, man. You met him yet?”

“Patrick… from the diner?”

“Yeah! He grew up in Chicago with his mom. Glenview, I think,” Joe explains. “His dad and grandparents lived here, so he’d visit a lot. We met when we were kids. He introduced me to a lot of stuff back then. Still does, sometimes.” Joe levers a strange little smirk at them. “He’s, like, a savant, you know?”

Pete did not know. It’s a little hard to reconcile, at first, but then he considers the way Patrick carries himself, assured, all-knowing, a little self-righteous. It fits, and it makes Pete smile. “So he’s heard Arma, then?”

Joe laughs heartily. “Yeah, man. He’s heard it.”

The comment echoes in his head as he makes his way back into Vaughn’s that evening. Emmy is sitting at a table instead of their usual spot at the counter, which is currently taken by that weird William Beckett guy and another tall, dark-haired man. It’s quieter than on the weekend. Most of the tables are empty, Hayley and Travie standing casually behind the counter, chatting as the bell above the door chimes. Hayley smiles and waves. Travie nods. William and his friend turn to stare with wide eyes, ogling at Pete in his suit like he’s an animal at the zoo.

Ignoring the attention, Pete settles at the table, focusing on ordering and asking about school. Emmy seems to like his new school, or at least doesn’t have any outstanding complaints just yet. He mentions that there’s a big library, which bodes well. It’s a private school, over in the next town, which Pete isn’t fond of, but his parents insisted on paying for. He’s glad Emmy likes it, at any rate, and hopes that holds for a while.

Patrick is nowhere in sight, and Pete considers asking Hayley about it, but he manages to keep it in, picking at the burger in front of him. Andy is right, even if he didn’t come right out and say it. Pete can’t have a crush on Patrick. It’s a really bad idea. He barely knows anything about him, for starters. He has no idea if he’s single, or if he’s even into guys. He can speculate all day long, but the fact is he doesn’t know for sure. Even aside from that, it’s too soon.

The bell above the door chimes, and Pete turns in his seat.

It’s like someone wraps a hand around his throat and squeezes. The man walking through the door is dressed in pressed slate grey slacks and a long-sleeve button down with pale blue pinstripes, his shoes a nice shiny chocolate leather. The cut of his clothes accentuates a slim, solid frame, delicate and sturdy at the same time. The man has soft strawberry blond hair cut short and falling just above his eyes. Clear blue flecked gold, unobstructed by any lenses or low-hanging hat brims. His face is open, uncovered, clean and pale and smooth, the warm evening sunlight catching on the fine planes of his face, high cheekbones, sweetly curved lips. The man is breathtaking and beautiful.

The man is Patrick.

Pete sends a quick apology off to Andy in his head. There is no denying this now. Wow, he is so fucked.

Patrick notices Pete in the next moment, stopping in his tracks. He stares Pete down until it’s kind of awkward, and then shuffles behind the counter for the coffee decanter. As he returns, pouring his refill while ignoring the fact that his cup is most of the way full already, he says gruffly, “You clean up well.”

Pete wants to laugh. In his mind, he thinks of the Patrick he’s known for the past three days, the Patrick always covering up in slouchy t-shirts, oversized cardigans, and baggy jeans, with hats pulled snug over his head, a curtain of hair and thick glasses to hide behind. Then he looks at _this_ Patrick and parries, “I could say the same to you.”

Patrick’s cheeks go pink as he steps back and frowns. “I had to meet my accountant. It’s annual. I get a haircut, I shave, I wear a shirt with buttons. I endure sticking my fingers in my eyes, so I don’t have to wear glasses. It’s a whole thing.” He pauses, eyeing Pete’s suit. “That’s how you _should’ve_ looked this morning, by the way. You look…” He trails off, shifting his gaze away to where, well, _everyone_ is watching them from the counter. He clears his throat. “You’re cut off after this one. I’m not gonna be held responsible for any more of your bad first impressions.”

Pete laughs as Patrick wanders away before he can argue, watches him disappear up a set of stairs by the bathroom. Pete wonders where that leads, if it’s where Patrick lives, if he lives there alone. Hayley gives him a strange smile from across the room, and Pete turns his attention back to Emmy.

“It's like we're in an episode of 'Queer Eye',” he jokes, taking a bite out of his burger. Emmy smirks but says nothing, munching on his fries and reading his book. Pete stares out the window, watching the people in the square. He thinks of later when he’ll lie awake in bed and listen. He thinks of the strum of a guitar and a strong voice echoing in the dark. He thinks of blue-gold eyes under a slant of fair hair, and then makes himself think of nothing at all.

*


	2. hold on to nothing for good

It is shockingly easy to acclimate to life in Mighty Falls. The town has its own routines well-established, and Pete gets happily swept up in the flow of it. Within a few weeks, he’s getting up early – _actually_ early – and having a preliminary cup of coffee with the Keurig, staring out into the vast backyard, pondering if there’s enough space to put in a pool before summer while Emmy gets ready for school. Pete is eternally blessed to have a child that requires no bullying to get out of bed. The kid definitely got Darcy’s genes on that one.

Construction on the inn gets underway. Pete and Andy begin the first stages of designing the interior, with the help of a guy they hired out of Peoria who has a huge forehead and too much overbearing enthusiasm but _can_ put together one hell of a color palette. It should be exciting, except that Andy hasn’t shut up about some newfangled induction range that he wants to buy for the kitchen. It’s caused a bit of a snag – gas stoves are industry standard, and Pete’s worried about finding any potential staff that are comfortable cooking with electric. Andy won’t budge because electric is so much better for the environment. On top of that, there is more foundational damage than they initially thought, which means it is going to take longer to fix, which means the contractor has to push the expected finish date back by another month. That means the inn won’t be ready to open for at least half a year. His father will be appalled. Pete gets a migraine just thinking about it.

On the positive side, Emmy loves his school. By Halloween, he’s already made a few friends, including one girl named Amy who he rides the bus with every day. He thinks it’s funny that their names sound alike. Pete did, in fact, get roped into joining the booster club. Thankfully, they only meet once a month. Most of the other members are mothers, which is fine, except that it makes Pete wish (not for the first time) that they hadn’t had Emmy so young. He’s thirty, single, a little bit dangerous looking with the tattoos, and the hungry gazes of the nearing-forty booster club moms are not subtle. At his first meeting, one of them actually approaches him and asks him out for coffee, which is at least good for a laugh in his car afterwards. His only thought aside from turning her down is that he can’t wait to tell Patrick.

They still go to the diner every morning for breakfast. It’s just convenient, really; Emmy’s bus stops at the corner outside. Pete waits there with him and watches him get on, then sticks around for a little bit before going to the inn. Patrick allows him two cups of coffee (maybe three if he pouts enough) and as much conversation as Pete can eke out of him. After school, Emmy waits there for him and does homework or reads a book. Pete doesn’t like the idea of Emmy sitting at home alone, and Patrick doesn’t seem to mind having one less counter stool to turn over. Sometimes the two of them stay for dinner, sometimes Pete has managed to buy groceries that week and they eat at home.

Slowly, Pete gets to know Patrick. Hayley and Travie, too, of course, but he sees Patrick the most, and despite acting put out and exasperated by everything that comes out of Pete’s mouth, Patrick opens up to him bit by bit. Turns out, Joe wasn’t kidding about the whole musical savant thing – the only time Pete has heard Patrick speak in multiple, complex sentences is when he’s ripping the new Weezer album to shreds or waxing poetic about _Purple Rain_.

“Dude, who are you to criticize? Have _you_ ever written a song?” Pete demands one morning after a particularly colorful diatribe about the musical composition of some R&B singer Pete’s never heard of.

Patrick fixes him with a glare, cheeks going red. It’s more obvious without his scruffy sideburns. He hasn’t grown them back since the meeting with his accountant. Pete watches the color in his face rise, appreciating the curve of his cheekbones as he snaps, “Actually, I have. I worked in clubs, and I played in some bands.”

“Where did you work?”

“Uh… do you know the Fireside? I worked there in high school.”

“What!” Pete nearly spits out his coffee. “Do I _know the Fireside?_ ” Is he serious? “Are you _serious_?”

Bemusement bleeds from Patrick’s eyes, his mouth curving into a frown. “Uh, yeah?” In the next second, he seems to pick up on the sparkle in Pete’s eye, the gleam of his excited grin as he starts shuffling through timelines and old shows in his head. Maybe Patrick can hear the exact whir of it, the way things shift and click into place. His eyes widen as Pete’s mouth opens, as if he knows exactly what he’s going to say.

“I had a band,” Pete blurts out. “Arma Angelus? Me and Andy, actually. We played the Fireside all the time. I… I bet we… maybe we’ve…”

The corner of Patrick’s mouth twitches. “Yeah, I know about your band, _Pete Wentz._ Anyone who was in the scene back then does. I, uh… yeah, I saw you guys there once. I was a junior in high school, I think. We, uh, we didn’t meet.”

If there’s one bad habit Pete has never been able to grow out of – okay, there’s definitely more than one, but arguably the _worst_ one – is his tendency to pick at his scabs until they bleed. Reasonably, he doesn’t need to know what Patrick thinks of some failed experiment of a band that really just served to sate twenty-year-old Pete’s manic energy. In fact, he could probably wager a good bet he already knows Patrick’s opinion. Will it hurt to confirm that Patrick doesn’t think he’s talented, musically, or lyrically, or vocally? Yes, yes it will. But he just can’t fucking help it.

“Well? What did you, Maestro Patrick Stump, think of Arma Angelus, band of Pete Wentz? I’m _dying_ to know.”

Patrick levels him with a considering gaze, as if he’s actually giving it some real thought, weighing out the pros of Andy’s backbeats to the cons of Pete’s snarling screams. After a moment, his half-cocked smile twists into a sardonic smirk. “I don’t remember anything that I would qualify as _music_ , but I liked the bleach blond look you had going. Very Timberlake.”

The comment jumps from Patrick’s lips – so lush and innocent looking, what a ruse! – to crack against Pete’s carefully crafted veneer of disaffection, rattling the edges of his ego but not quite leaving a scratch. As expected, it stings a little, but Pete finds himself laughing into a sip of his coffee, muttering a fond little, “ _Snob,_ ” and letting it go with nothing more than a satisfied thought about Patrick liking his awful hair.

“Okay, so what happened?” Pete prompts after he realizes no further information is forthcoming.

“What do you mean?”

“I _mean_ that you’re not running the mixing board at Lincoln Hall or writing concert reviews for the Trib, so what made you hang it up?”

Patrick leaves him long enough to give some coffee to the other thirsty, tired patrons and gather up some empty plates. Pete is practically vibrating with curiosity by the time he returns to the counter, his face giving nothing away. With a soft sigh, Patrick pushes his hat back, revealing more of his coppery bangs and letting the light catch the blue of his eyes. Pete feels transfixed as they lean together over the counter. “I graduated high school. Fireside turned back into a bowling alley, but I was going to college anyway, so I left my job. I did the college thing and I interned at the Metro for a little while my senior year, but then after I graduated, my dad died, and I had to take over the diner.”

“Oh. Oh… Patrick, I—”

Patrick shrugs, his flat eyes betraying his cavalier attitude. “It was three years ago. Cancer. It happened pretty fast.” He shrugs again. “Anyway, I knew I’d inherit the place someday. It was sooner than I expected but hanging up the music thing was inevitable.” He laughs a little. “For a minute, I thought about turning the place into a music shop. But I dunno, that felt disrespectful to my dad, y’know?”

“Sure, I guess…” Pete wants to say more, but with true impeccably bad timing, William comes banging through the door to ask Patrick if he can use his sidewalk space for some hay bales for the upcoming Harvest Festival, and it sets Patrick off for a good ten minutes. Pete slips away while Patrick stands outside with William and Gabe, gesticulating wildly and griping about his windows being blocked.

Halloween week is a blur of purple and orange twinkly lights, candy hoarding, and scavenging for the perfect costume for Emmy. The booster club hosts a bake sale for the fencing team (because a private school can’t just have _typical_ clubs and teams, oh no) and Pete convinces Andy to bake some of his famous pumpkin squares. They’re a huge hit, which earns Pete some (literal, vegan) brownie points with the school. He’s on such a high, he offers to help Hayley decorate the diner the next night after dinner while Emmy works his way through his math homework and Patrick pretends not to watch them hang spiderwebs from the storage room while he unpacks boxes of pickles.

On Halloween day – blessedly on a Saturday this year – the town hosts a parade. Pete and Andy take Emmy, who is smartly and warmly dressed as Chewbacca. Pete is dressed head to toe in gold, complete with gloves and a C3PO mask pushed up on top of his head so he can still breathe and see. Andy declined all of the costumes Pete offered him, but he is wearing a t-shirt with R2D2 on it under his parka. They sip hot apple cider that they buy from Travie at the folding table set up outside the diner. He’s dressed as a mummy, strips of muslin wrapped and draped artistically around his torso, down both arms and legs, and around his head, tufts of hair sticking out here and there. Someone even did some corpse make-up on him. It looks professional. Pete sees Hayley wandering through the families sitting along the curb, handing out candy to the kids dressed like Ziggy Stardust. Her spiky red hair looks perfect. Emmy blushes when she runs over and hands him a full-size Snickers bar before scurrying off again.

There are six hay bales piled against the side of the diner, stacked two-high so as not to block the windows. Pete smirks to himself as the three of them settle onto one of the bales and watch the floats and high school marching bands going by. When he finds a discrete moment to glance through the window, he sees Patrick hunched over the counter, chin resting on a fist, staring forlornly at the parade and all of the people having fun. He’s not wearing a costume at first glance – then Pete notices that his hat has been traded in for a simple pair of devil horns. This is too good to pass up.

“I’ll be right back,” he tells Andy, who simply turns to Emmy and points out Gabe, on stilts and teetering down the road. He’s holding a poster that says, in big block letters: GABE SAPORTA, AVAILABLE FOR PARTIES.

The bell above the door chimes as Pete slips into the diner. It’s completely deserted, all of the usual customers enjoying the festivities. Patrick seems startled that Pete’s come in, casting a dubious glance over Pete’s costume as he straightens up and gives him a half-hearted smile.

“Hey, happy Halloween,” Pete says in greeting, taking his usual stool.

“Hey,” Patrick returns, “uh, yeah. You, too. You want a coffee?”

“Nah, I wouldn’t dare insult Travie.” Pete lifts the hand holding his cider, then grins wickedly. “You know, it could use a little _spirit_.”

Patrick grunts in a way that could be a laugh, maybe. “I’m afraid I can’t help you with that.”

“Probably for the best, we’ve got a lot of Halloween ahead of us,” Pete says gravely. “The parade is nice, but I’m not used to this kind of all-day event.”

“Prepare yourself for more of these. It’s Will’s thing, he wants to bring back all the old town celebrations, to ‘restore the town pride.’ I told him he’ll never be Leslie Knope, but he didn’t seem to hear me.”

Pete laughs one of his loud, honking laughs, and it coaxes a wider smile out of Patrick. It makes him look younger than he is, round cheeks and bright eyes. Pete wonders what Patrick looked like back in high school, standing in the shadows watching a blond, angry Pete scream his lungs out onstage. Pete sips at his hot cider to give himself a moment, the liquid sweet but spiced and making his cheeks flush with the heat of it. “By the way, I like your horns.”

Like he forgot he was wearing them, Patrick reaches up to fidget with the headband, cheeks red. “Oh, uh, thanks.”

“I’m surprised, though,” Pete goes on, leaning in toward the other man with his chin in his hand. Patrick raises an inquisitive eyebrow. Pete leers. “It’s just, you look more like an angel to me.”

For a moment, Patrick looks completely bewildered, and then a blush creeps over his whole face. The redder he gets, the more Pete grins, making sure to give him the big, lovey-dovey fluttery-lashes heart eyes. Patrick starts to scoff, smiling but then immediately scowling, outraged. It seems like a good opportunity to push his luck and Pete leans closer to do so. Before he gets there, the distinct tune of a cellphone ringtone fills the diner, startling them both. To Pete’s complete shock, Patrick produces a phone from his pocket and checks the caller I.D.

“Hey, no cell phones in the diner, man! What gives?” Pete cries, flinging an arm out to point at the bright red letters of the sign hanging behind the coffee maker. “That’s _your_ sign! _You_ made up that rule!” He points directly between Patrick’s eyes, his mouth dropped open on a gasp, scandalized. “You’re a hypocrite.”

Patrick rolls his eyes at him. “Look, I gotta take this. Can you move the dramatics outside?”

“Okay, but you’re not allowed to yell at me for taking Andy’s calls anymore,” Pete says easily, strutting in triumph, heading for the door. Patrick smiles indulgently, waving him off, and then his attention is back on the cell phone, no longer on Pete.

Halfway out the door, Pete pauses, turning back. Patrick’s face is still flushed red, his mouth wide open in a grin. It’s a look that he’s never seen on the other man’s face before, a look of pure joy and excitement. As Patrick ducks into the storage room, Pete hears a muffled, “Hey, happy birthday…” and then the electronic music coming from Reverend Gould’s pick-up truck drowns it all out.

*

The weather takes a turn for the colder. The spooky decorations come down and are quickly replaced with turkeys and autumn leaves, some houses already adorned with twinkling holiday lights along the awning. The trees lining Main Street turn bare, the grass in the town square becoming sparse and pale in preparation for months buried under snow.

Pete still spends the bulk of his time with Andy or the staff at Vaughn’s, but he feels like people are starting to see them – him, Emmy, and Andy – as a real part of the town. They are invited to formally introduce themselves at one of the monthly town meetings, where Andy gives a very thorough presentation on their progress and their projected plans. No one seems to consider it as big a deal as he does; Pete even sees the local mechanic, Vicky, watching _The Bachelor_ on her phone during Slide Forty-Six: Crop Yield Predictions - Spring. Still, after that everyone is a little more friendly, a little more willing to say hello when they see him at the diner or walking home through the square. Pete never felt like he was part of a community where he lived before, surrounded by holier-than-thou socialites and trust fund yuppies. Turns out, it’s a nice feeling.

On Thanksgiving Day, a tree covered in twinkling white lights and pristine porcelain ornaments appears in front of the gazebo. Pete saw Gabe and William drive out of town in a large truck the day before, boxes and extension cords and a hand saw poking out of the truck bed, so he assumes they are the culprits. It’s pretty, anyway, and adds another level of charm to the town. Pete points it out to Emmy as they drive out toward the highway, heading to Chicago to have dinner with his parents. It is the first time he’s seen them since the move. His father will be eager to hear about the inn. Pete tries not to think about that.

There is a fair bit of traffic because of the holiday and Pete tries to stay calm about it. He hates driving. The Audi has a terrible blind spot, and it makes him paranoid that he’s going to accidentally hit another car because he can’t see them. His head will ache later from how hard he concentrates on the road. The drive is short, at least, and before long they are pulling through the iron gates at the end of his parent’s driveway, which is long, cobblestone, and ends in a roundabout, framing a magnificent marble water fountain.

Pete shuts off the car and grabs up a Tupperware of cranberry-red macarons (courtesy of Andy) then heaves a sigh, glancing into the rearview to catch Emmy’s eyes. “Ready for this?”

Emmy shrugs but looks away. He twists his fingers in the navy-blue tie around his throat. “It’s just Grandma and Grandpa.”

Ah, the innocence. “Alright, let’s go.”

The house is as extravagant as Pete remembers it, all dark finished wood, expensive fabrics, ornate golden mirrors. He hasn’t actually been inside in a long time, at least five years. It smells of varnish and top shelf vodka, and a little bit of smoke from the fireplace. There are spots, here and there, where he finds traces of the rose argan oil his mother likes to dab on her wrists. Despite the stress induced by being in direct vicinity to his parents, that smell is sort of comforting. They give their coats and the macarons to a timid little maid in a classic doily-aproned outfit, who scurries off before Pete can even say thank you. Emmy gives him a dubious look. Pete’s at a loss, so he steers them toward the living room without a word.

His mother, Dale, is seated on a plush red couch, sipping a martini, draped in a fine sapphire dress made of velvet and lace, her dark hair pinned up tight.

“Ah, there you are!” she cries when she sees them in the doorway. “I thought perhaps you got _lost_ , coming from so far.”

“Hi, Mom,” Pete replies, mouth suddenly feeling dry. “It’s not that far, there was just a lot of traffic. Sorry we’re late.”

“Oh, it feels far, all the way out in the country like that. Sit, sit, let me look at you.”

They do as they are told, Emmy swinging his feet a little as he is examined. Pete managed to wrangle him into some nice slacks and a button-down shirt and tame his hair back into a little knot. He looks more than presentable. His mother’s eyes turn to him, and Pete hopes that his three-piece Versace is impressive enough, that the gel is his hair holds up, that she won’t notice the tired lines around his eyes.

“You look well,” she says finally, and Pete releases a breath. He smiles.

“We are. You do too, Mom. That’s a beautiful dress.” His chest loosens another fraction when she smiles back at him, satisfied.

His father, Peter, enters in a flourish from upstairs, tall, and domineering, and dressed in a suit that Pete thinks he saw Jeff Bridges wear to the last Oscars. It seems over the top for a small family gathering – his other two siblings and their families aren’t even here – but the Wentzes never do anything at half-pace.

“Ah, Pete, Emmett! Happy Thanksgiving!”

“Hey, Dad,” Pete says. Emmy murmurs a response.

Peter makes his way to the drink cart, readying a glass for scotch. “Anything to drink, son? A martini, a scotch?”

Pete can’t help the frosty tone of his voice when he replies, “Just a club soda, actually, thanks. I have to drive.”

Peter sighs heavily. “Oh, yes, I forgot. Just a club soda. And a pop for Emmett?” There is no way Pete hears disappointment in his voice because sobriety is such an _absurd_ thing to be disappointed about. Unfortunately, he does see it in his eyes when Peter passes both of their drinks to him. Just for a moment, but he sees it. Dale pretends not to notice, sipping her martini. Pete passes Emmy his Coke, takes a deep breath, takes a sip of his club soda, and refuses to feel guilty for anything.

They manage to make it all the way to the elaborate dining room table and through the carving of the turkey – another unnecessary spectacle that involves Peter cutting _one piece_ and then the chef taking the turkey back to the kitchen to plate – while remaining cordial and friendly. The conversation is kept fairly light. They stick to Emmy’s new school, Pete’s work with the booster club, some mildly interesting goings-on at the flagship hotel that involves some people Pete used to work with. It’s light-hearted and warm and familial, until his father takes his first bite of stuffing and says, “So, Pete, tell me about your inn.”

*

Much like Halloween, the diner is completely dead on Thanksgiving.

Despite this, Patrick and Travie make the complete spread: turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing (from scratch, not a box), sweet potato pie, cranberry sauce (from a can, not scratch), and pumpkin pie for dessert. They cook enough for ten people, push the middle tables in the dining room together and lay a king-size sheet printed with a thousand pretty yellow daisies over the top. Patrick breaks out his grandma’s nice crystal candlesticks and turns the overhead lights off to create a soft, inviting glow. He brings down his record player for music and a six pack of shitty beer for drinking. The two of them settle in at the table and tuck into the food without fanfare.

Thanksgiving together in the diner has become tradition over the past few years. Travie’s mother died when he was a kid, and his father had passed only a year before Patrick’s. The rest of his family lives in upstate New York. As for Patrick, his mother has become a snowbird, spending her September-through-April in Florida, coming back every year just in time for Patrick’s birthday. His siblings have their own families, one in Seattle and one in Virginia. Once Travie and Patrick realized that they were both alone for the holidays, it only made sense to celebrate together.

The door always stays open in case there are any other holiday orphans looking for a home. They usually get a few passers-by, but this year it stays quiet. Travie cracks jokes about Patrick’s taste in eighties rom-coms over turkey, and Patrick lectures Travie on the difference between sampling versus plagiarism over slices of pie. They finish off the beer and then Travie reveals a small bottle of tequila in his backpack. It’s been a long time since Patrick has had hard liquor. It doesn’t take long for his head to get floaty and happy.

After a while, Travie gets up to lock the door.

“Nah, leave it a li’l longer,” Patrick says, waving a hand at him. “Someone could still come.”

It’s almost ten o’clock. Travie huffs a laugh, turning to loft an eyebrow at him. “Who d’you think is turning up this late, Stump?”

“I dunno, I dunno…” Patrick scratches a hand over his cheek, wincing when his nails sting against his skin. He hasn’t let his sideburns grow back in, and it’s hard to get used to. “Emmy and Pete could turn up. They usually do.”

“Oh.” Something in Travie’s voice sounds off. “Pete, huh?”

“Yeah, and Emmy, dude. He’ll… he might want pie. Kids always want pie. Pete’s just… he’s… a casualty.” The last word kind of blurs together, his tongue heavy.

“Uh huh.” Travie takes a seat beside him again, reaching over to pour another shot of tequila into the coffee mug in front of each of them. “Dude… I’m gonna ask you something, and I want you to be real with me and not get pissed, okay?”

Patrick squints at him, skeptical but willing to see where this is going. “Uh, okay, sure.”

“Is everything alright? You know…” Travie’s fingers tap nervously against the mug. “With Frank?”

It’s a little bit like the chair slipping out from under him or the record on the player scratching, except nothing that dramatic actually happens. Patrick’s stomach flips over and for a brief second, he thinks he might throw up. He thinks of his cell phone, upstairs on the nightstand. He hasn’t checked it at all today. Patrick stares at the half-eaten pumpkin pie on the table and feels his chest tighten. “Yeah. Yes. Of course. Why wouldn’t everything be alright?”

His voice is harsh, barbed, ready to deflect any attack. Travie stays calm in the face of a Patrick-shaped storm, shrugging a careful, calculated shoulder, blinking at him with purposely disinterested eyes. “You stopped talking to me about him, and he’s been gone a long time. You went all health nut yoga master, you’re changing up your look, which is great, I mean, you do you, but like sometimes I don’t even recognize you. And now, you’re seeing a lot of this Pete guy, you’re babysitting his _kid_ on the daily, and I just wondered—”

“He’s just a friend!” Patrick insists, too fast. He ignores the other ludicrous (albeit truthful) accusations, instead focusing on the easiest one to deny. “Barely even that. I can’t stand the guy half the time, really. He’s obnoxious and _irresponsible_ , I mean, I don’t _like_ that he leaves his kid with me, but I’m not gonna turn out a ten-year-old, am I? It’s not his fault that his dad’s some entitled trust-funder who thinks he can flirt his way through life. No, I do _not_ like him.”

“Right… okay, I hear all that, but you don’t have to _like_ the guy to be attracted to him,” Travie says, both doubtful and reasonable at once. “It’s okay to have a crush, man.”

“I do _not_ have a _crush_ on _Pete Wentz_.” His tone has turned murderous, spitting out the name like poison sucked from a wound.

Travie surrenders, hands up, eyes wide and imploring now. “If that’s what you say, then I believe you.” He pauses, then ventures slowly, “So, things _are_ okay with Frank, then?”

Patrick deflates a little, dulling his edge with tequila down his throat, wincing and wishing for a slice of lime. “Yeah, things are fine. It’s almost over, Trav. I can’t get mad, can I? I agreed to it.”

“I know. Just, six months doesn’t sound long, but it is. Things change. I’d back you up if you were pissed.”

“Yeah, I know. And thanks, but I’m okay. Things are fine. He’ll be back soon, and things _will be_ fine.”

If it sounds more like Patrick’s trying to convince himself, Travie is a gentleman and doesn’t mention it, just pours him another shot.

*

“Pete, sit down.”

Dinner became a dessert of chocolate mousse and fruit (and noticeably _not_ Andy’s macarons. Pete hopes the maid enjoys them) and then before his mother can try to offer him some after-dinner port the tryptophan kicks in, rendering Emmy unconscious on the living room couch. It gives Peter the perfect opportunity to direct Pete into his study, closing the door behind them and motioning him into a leather chair tucked up to a roaring fireplace. His father pours himself another scotch, the pale skin of his cheeks taking on a cherry-red glow that reminds Pete a little bit of Patrick. He wonders idly if there will be leftover pumpkin pie for them tomorrow.

The thoughts are ejected from his head as Peter settles in the chair across from him, firelight dancing sharply in his gaze. He sips his liquor and Pete tucks his fingers under his thighs to keep from fidgeting.

“So, you say progress on the inn is going well,” Peter begins, voice deceptively quiet and even, “but we’re not projected to open until the end of spring. I’ve opened a lot of hotels in my day, and if there’s one thing I know, the faster you can get the doors open, the better. Explain to me the hold up.”

Pete shifts in his seat. “There was some foundational damage that they missed in the inspections. Our contractor has to go in and completely replace everything, but we’re trying to maintain as much of the original structure as we can, so it’s a slow process.” His father’s face remains blank. “There’s a chance we can make up some time once everything is stabilized, and in the meantime, we’re working with the neighboring farms to—”

“You’re getting vendors involved when you haven’t even laid the groundwork yet, literally,” Peter interrupts. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Pete. We cannot afford for this to be a failure.”

“Talk about getting ahead of yourself,” Pete snarks, unable to bite it back. He sinks back into the cushions of the chair with a defeated huff. “You have absolutely no faith in me.”

“I know you, Pete.” His father’s eyes flash at him. “You have to measure twice and cut once here—”

“Come on, Dad, I hate that saying. What does it even _mean_?”

“—and actually stop and _think_ for once, Pete! Think, don’t just _do!_ ” Peter lobs his glass onto a side table with a gavel-bang. “You know I spoke to Emmett’s principal about your first day?”

Pete scoffs. “Unbelievable. That was almost _three months_ ago! You just _had_ to wait to give me hell about it, really let the disappointment marinate, huh?”

“It’s always so dramatic with you. I’m concerned. You’re turning things around with the school, and I’m glad, but now with this setback on our project—”

“ _My_ project,” Pete argues. “Mine and Andy’s.”

“Financed by my company,” Peter reminds him.

“That’s supposed to be a _loan_ —”

“And until it’s paid off, the inn belongs to me. Your home belongs to _me_. Whether you like it or not, you still represent the Kingston name, and you _will_ perform accordingly. I took a big risk here, Pete, I put myself on the line by convincing the board to support your endeavor, after everything. If this fails, they could vote to replace me as CEO and chairman. It’s not just about you this time. Your failure will hurt me, it will hurt your mother, your business partner, _your son_. You will not let that boy down again. You _will not fail_. Do you understand?”

Pete swallows back the lump he feels forming in his throat, unable to lift his eyes from where his fingers are now twisted in his lap. His heart beats staccato against the inside of his chest, the warm glow of the fireplace dulling to a flat white. “I understand.” He gets to his feet; his limbs are numb and slow to move. “We need to get back.” Peter stays seated, sipping calmly at his drink as Pete makes his way to the door. Before he slips out into the corridor, he pauses, turning to take in the sight of his father, regal in his suit and shrouded in shadow. “One question, though, Dad.”

Peter cocks his head to the side, lifting a curious eyebrow.

Pete grasps the doorknob, the ridges of the intricate ironwork sharp in his fist. “Do you actually believe that I can do it?”

The rapidly melting ice cubes clink against the sides of Peter’s glass as he tips another sip down his throat, regarding his son with a slow, calculating gaze. It’s the same look he’s always given him, since as far back as Pete can remember. The old man sighs heavily as he swallows, and asks, “Do _you_ believe it?”

Pete doesn’t answer. Pete has no answer. “Thank you for dinner,” he says, and ducks out of the room.

The town is quiet, fast asleep just like Emmy in the backseat when Pete gets them back a couple of hours later. He squints at a faint glow coming from Vaughn’s but sees no one inside. He squints through the darkness at the shape of the gazebo, searching for the curve of shoulders hunched over a guitar. He sees no one there, either.

*

Seven days.

They started at one hundred and eighty-two. Patrick has marked days off on his calendar for six long months, convinced himself to be content with brief phone conversations and small flurries of text messages. Seven days from now, New Year’s Day, he’ll remember why it was all worth it.

It snowed overnight, surprising everyone as it hadn’t snowed yet at all this year. The town awoke to a pristine, iridescent landscape where their square used to be, perfect piles of sparkling white covering the top of the gazebo and the limbs of the trees. The pine tree Gabe and William set up is also completely covered, the faint yellow glow of the string lights still faintly visible. Patrick sees it when he goes out to brush off his truck before he opens. He thinks someone should unplug it before it starts an electrical fire.

The snow hasn’t let up, still falling from the sky in slow, delicate tufts. It’s a nice, pillowy kind of snow, not wet enough to immediately turn into ice. He can sweep it cleanly off the glass of his windshield, and the motion casts it like a glitter bomb into the air around him. For a moment, he can’t see anything but the glimmer of the snowflakes, and then it settles around him and Pete is standing across the street.

“Hey!” Patrick calls automatically, waving a hand.

Pete waves back, stepping over to him in a leisurely fashion, turning every few steps to look up at the falling snow. “Merry Christmas.” His voice is much quieter than normal, calm, serene. It catches Patrick off guard for a moment. Pete looks away to watch the snow again, little glittery flakes sticking to his lashes in a mesmerizing way, and Patrick takes the break in eye contact to collect himself.

“You’re making a bold assumption about my religion,” he says finally.

At that, Pete laughs, the sharp sound of it echoing around them. His eyes turn back to Patrick with an impish gleam. “Well, I don’t know, lunchbox, you look just like a leprechaun to me.” He leers dramatically at him. “I _boldly_ assumed you were a good Irish Catholic.”

Patrick tries for indignant but lands somewhere around floundering. Who cares if Pete’s right? He manages to wave a hand toward Pete’s oversized knit sweater, mostly black except for the skull in a Santa hat in the middle. “Cute. I’m gonna boldly assume you’re a Satanist.”

Another jarringly charming laugh rips its way from Pete’s throat, his head tipping back. The collar of his sweatshirt is wide enough that Patrick catches sight of the thorns tattooed around his neck. He forces his eyes away.

“Okay, well, whatever you celebrate, presents are always cool, right?” Pete reveals a gym bag slung around his shoulders. From inside, he produces a hat. It’s a fedora, simple and black and it looks soft to touch. Patrick blinks at him from under the bundle of his scarf and the woolly interior of the hood of his Carhartt coat. Snowflakes stick to the lenses of his glasses, melting and distorting the image of Pete before him, holding out this perfect little hat.

“What is that?”

“It’s a present, for you.” Pete smiles and steps closer.

Patrick continues to boggle at him. “I—You got me a present?”

Pete falters, starting to tuck the hat back toward his chest. “Well, I was shopping for Emmy and I saw it and I thought of you. Is it… weird?”

The look on his face is so sincere that Patrick snaps out of it, closing the distance between them to take the hat from him. “No, it’s great. Thank you. It’s nicer than any of the other ones I have.” He holds it carefully. “Uh, where _is_ the kid?”

“Eh, I let him sleep. It’s Christmas, after all,” Pete grins. “I figured I’d come harass you for some caffeine and maybe bring back some French toast for him?”

Technically, the diner isn’t open yet. Patrick hasn’t even taken the chairs off the tables, hasn’t even fired up the stove or taken inventory or done any prep. He steps aside, waving Pete past him. “Let’s get out of the cold.”

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to do my very best to keep up a biweekly posting schedule. Thank you to everyone who has read, left kudos, and commented so far! I always love to hear what you think.


	3. turn and run at the mean dogs chasing you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting a chapter out a little early this time. I finished it tonight and just couldn't wait. 
> 
> This one's a doozy. Here we go...

It’s Thursday evening, and all is well.

The last rays of sunlight are shining through the windows, birds are chirping, the diner is coming down from a nice dinner rush, and Patrick hasn’t had to talk to William or Gabe once today. At the counter, Pete and Emmy are making their way through two generous helpings of ratatouille that Patrick made (possibly because he overheard Emmy talking about the Disney movie a few days ago, but he won’t admit that even under threat of death). Pete is making some borderline pornographic noises, and Patrick is leaning back against the coffee maker, definitely _not_ staring at Pete’s mouth.

Across the room, Hayley is taking a break, sitting at a table chatting with the two guys that make up the rest of her band. Patrick doesn’t know much about them, couldn’t even tell you their names, but he knows that the band practices on Thursday nights in Ms. Danes’ garage. Hayley has invited him more than once to go and see them play. She wants his feedback, but Patrick always finds a way to beg off of it. That’s not his life anymore.

“—and I got a whole case, but that’s only six bottles, so I’m wondering if I should go back tomorrow and get another,” Travie says, leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen.

Patrick blinks at him, pulling his eyes away from where Pete is licking his fork clean. “What?”

Travie rolls his eyes, hard. “Champagne, Patrick. For tomorrow night? Do we have enough?”

“Oh, um. Right, well, let’s see…” He goes down the list of guests, which doesn’t take awfully long, considering the size of the town and their respective social circles. “You, me, Hayley, Joe, his girlfriend… that’s more than enough for us, I think. Maybe even too much.”

“Yo, Pete! You got plans tomorrow night?”

Patrick nearly chokes on his own tongue, barking out a sharp, “Trav!” but the other man ignores him.

Picking his head up as if he hadn’t totally been listening in already, Pete twirls his fork flippantly in the air, shrugging. “No, no plans. Emmy’s staying over at his friend’s house. I think Andy and I were gonna—”

“Come to our party? Great,” Travie says easily. “Be here at seven. I’ll get some more champagne.”

With that, he pushes off the doorframe and disappears back into the kitchen. Patrick sputters for a moment before lurching after him, ignoring the delighted grin coming from Pete. “That’s too much!” Patrick calls after him. “We’ll never drink all that!” When it becomes obvious that Travie is ignoring him, Patrick sighs heavily and returns to leaning against the coffee maker. To Pete, he says, “You guys don’t have to come. Really, if you have other plans or Andy doesn’t want to, it’s totally fine.”

“No way, we’ll definitely be there!” Pete assures him. “Otherwise, we’ll end up sitting on my couch drinking mocktails and eating pizza made out of vegetables that doesn’t even have real cheese on it. Really, this is saving me from the world’s most depressing New Year’s Eve ever, and I’m counting the time my great-aunt Bethany dropped dead of a heart attack during the ball drop.” His grin says he’s joking, but Patrick never knows with Pete.

“Glad to be of help, then.” He reaches a hand up to tip his hat back, the black fedora perching perfectly on the crown of his head. It’s strange; the hat is a little too nice to be wearing to work every day in a greasy spoon like his, and yet Patrick has found himself reaching for it each morning anyway. Pete’s eyes glance up to it, and his grin is something sweet and fond. Patrick retreats. “Hayley, I’ll be in the stock room!” he calls over his shoulder.

“Great, go on home while you’re at it!” Hayley returns.

The stock room is warm and quiet, the buzz of conversation from the dining room dulled to a faint murmur. There are four sets of shelves built perpendicular along the far wall, accessible from either side. Patrick’s grandfather built them back in the thirties. In the corner to the right of the entry, there is a small cot with a pillow and an old red plaid quilt. Sometimes Travie will crash there, or Patrick if he has to get up at weird hours to bake something complicated and doesn’t want to stumble down the stairs in the dark. At the end of the cot is a stack of boxes from their wholesale supplier, waiting to be unpacked. It was meant to be an activity for the next morning, but Patrick sets himself to the task now, fingers itching for something to occupy them.

He’s halfway through a box of napkins when there comes a quiet _tap tap tap_ from the doorway, followed by a soft, “Hey.” Patrick looks up to find Pete hovering at the entry, teetering backwards like he’s ready to flee.

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” he says without any heat behind it. That seems to decide something for Pete, who smiles and walks fully into the storage room, hands in his pockets as he looks around.

“Kinda cramped, huh?”

“Well, it’s not really meant for more than one person at a time.” Patrick says it like a hint, but unfortunately Pete doesn’t take it. Instead, he settles beside him, picking up the boxcutter on the nearest shelf and looking at the stack next to them.

“Can I help?” he asks.

Patrick sighs, turning back to his task. “Just don’t cut your hand open, my insurance only covers employees.”

They work together in silence for a short stretch of time. Patrick ignores the heat he can feel radiating off of Pete every time he leans close or reaches across him to straighten one of the napkin packages. There’s a scent coming off him, too, something earthy and bright and organic. It has to be cologne or some kind of spray, but Patrick isn’t usually a fan of artificial smells, and this is really nice. Probably something expensive, something Patrick’s never even heard of, something only found on the kind of rich assholes that he makes sure to avoid.

“You know, if you have a problem with me and Andy coming to your party, it’s okay, we don’t have to,” Pete says suddenly, making Patrick jump. “I mean, neither of us drink, so we won’t be much help with the champagne.”

Patrick means to cut him off, means to say, “No, it’s fine! There’s no problem!” But he doesn’t. Pete keeps talking his usual mile a minute, but Patrick can’t even register the words, lost in the thought of an image in his mind, of a neon tabloid cover with a picture of Pete spilling out of the back of a town car, an image that inherently reeks of alcohol. It’s the last thing he can recall the PTA whispering about him, quiet murmurs of _Isn’t it a shame_ and _He needs to get help._ That was a long time ago now, when Patrick had first moved permanently to Mighty Falls, when his dad was in the hospital barely clinging to life. He never heard any whispers about rehab, so he had just assumed…

In the dim light of the storage room, Patrick squints critically at Pete, searching for signs of trickery when he asks, “You don’t drink? I thought you were the life of the party.”

Which is the wrong thing to say, judging by the way Pete drops his gaze and pulls back into himself, his eyes dulling behind a shield of long, dark lashes. “No. Not for a few years.”

“Oh.” Patrick clears his throat. “Sorry. But… I mean, that’s good?”

“Yeah, it is.” Pete looks uneasily toward the door. “But anyway, yeah, so Andy and I won’t be drinking any champagne, so maybe tell Travie not to buy more, or like I said, we don’t have to come—”

“No, no! I want you to, really. I really want you to. Come, I mean.” He stops himself, takes a breath, then squares his shoulders and says definitively, “Pete, I really want you to come.”

Pete stares at him for a beat too long, and then a muscle twitches on the right side of his face and he starts to smile his usual devilish smile. He steps into Patrick’s space, the scuffed rubber toe of his Chucks pressed against the pristine white shell of Pete’s sneakers. Sinking his teeth into a lush bottom lip, Pete puts both hands behind his back and looks up at Patrick from under sleepy eyelids. Not sleepy with fatigue, Patrick realizes as his heart thumps sluggish and stupid, sleepy with something _else._ Pete leans in close, keeping an inch or two between them, but near enough that when he looks straight into Patrick’s eyes everything gets a little blurry. In a silky-smooth whisper, he breathes out, “You _really_ want me to _come?”_

Patrick holds his breath, eyes bugging out of his head. Pete keeps his gaze locked for an endless, agonizing stretch of silence, then with an abrasive honking noise, he starts to laugh.

“Oh my god, are you twelve? I really want you to come _to the party_.” Patrick shoves him back a step, but he can’t help it, he starts laughing, too.

It’s Thursday evening, and all is well.

Until it’s not.

_“Pete!”_

The cry rings out through the diner, loud enough that it catches their attention even from the other room. Pete turns to the doorway just as Andy comes barreling in, face red and chest heaving. “Pete! Why aren’t you answering your phone?!”

“Oh, there’s no service back here,” Patrick answers, but Andy isn’t listening to him.

“Come on, we have to go!” he says to Pete, grabbing him by the bicep and hauling him toward the door.

Pete resists a little, brow furrowed. “Andy, dude, what’s going on?”

“It’s the inn, Joe called me, we have to go.”

“What? What about the inn? Andy!”

“I’ll explain on the way, we have to go now!”

People turn and stare as Andy drags Pete bodily through the dining room, barely managing not to topple over any of the counter stools or tables themselves. Emmy has looked up from an infographic about the layers of the Earth, more alarmed than Patrick’s ever seen him. Pete is still protesting, trying to get Andy to tell him what the hell is going on. Travie leans out of the kitchen and Hayley gets up from her seat. Then three firetrucks go squealing past the diner, in the direction of Evergreen Road. The room falls silent except for the sirens, everyone staring until the flashing red and white lights are out of sight.

Andy speaks first. “We have to go.”

Pete _still_ hesitates. “But Emmy—”

“Can stay here with me,” Patrick cuts in. When Pete shoots him a look that is equal parts desperate and grateful and guilt-ridden, he returns it with as comforting a smile as he can muster.

Hayley jumps into action, two strides to where Emmy is sitting, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “Yeah, little dude, I can show you how to do the napkin rolls!”

“Dad?” Emmy hasn’t taken his eyes off of Pete, who is teetering closer to the door but still eyeing his kid like he’s going to instantly catch pneumonia or break out in hives or snap his wrist if Pete leaves the diner.

“Seriously, Pete, it’s okay,” Patrick says. It takes another moment, but Pete finally nods and meets his eyes. “He’ll be fine here. You have to go.”

“We really, _really_ do,” Andy grits out, holding the door open but inching ever closer to the Prius parked at the curb.

“Okay,” Pete says finally. With one last glance at Emmy, now fully engaged with Hayley and a bin of silverware, he bolts for the car. The two of them are gone moments later.

The usual murmur of conversation starts up again, maybe a little bit more intense than before. Now that the door has been open a few minutes, Patrick can smell something faint but pungent in the air, too far off to be overwhelming but still unmistakable. From the storage room doorway, he watches Emmy roll silverware and thinks about summers on Lake Michigan, bonfires and laughter and chocolate, melted and sticky with marshmallow, and he thinks, sadly, that tonight will probably not leave the kid with those kinds of happy sense memories.

Travie catches his eye from the kitchen and tips his head to the side with a knowing smile. “Hey, Emmy, dude, what if we have breakfast for dinner?” Emmy perks up, already rapt with attention at the mere suggestion. Travie’s smile gets wider. “Yeah, Patrick makes the best s’more pancakes. I think there’s a bag of Puffs in the storage room, right, Patrick?”

“Really, you can make that?” Emmy gives him the big eyes, which is an unnecessary and totally unfair tactic.

“That’s gonna rot all of your teeth out,” Patrick chides. “Trav, you shouldn’t encourage him.” As Emmy’s face starts to fall, Patrick sighs a heavy, burdened kind of sigh. “I _guess_ I can make them, just don’t tell your dad. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Dad loves s’mores, he won’t care,” Emmy says reasonably.

“Exactly, I won’t hear the end of _both_ of you begging me to make them!” Patrick teases. “Let me see if I can even find the marshmallows.”

The echo of Emmy and Travie’s high five follows Patrick into the storage room.

*

The inn is burned to the ground.

Pete can’t believe the sight of it when Andy veers around the lane and into the main drive, kicking up dust behind them. There are fire trucks everywhere, water spraying and smoke billowing thicker and higher, blacker than the night sky, the more they pour onto it. The smell is nearly unbearable, even from inside the car. They can’t get out yet, that much is clear. Pete envies the firemen for their gas masks. He’s desperate to see the damage, to get on top of it before his father can find out.

Fuck, his father is going to _find out_.

Andy jumps when Pete punches the dashboard. The red and white lights reflect off of the windshield and into Pete’s eyes, flashing and flashing. He puts his head in his hands, and they sit silently, without moving, until the fire marshal knocks on the driver’s side window and lets them know it’s safe.

All that’s left of the grand, beautiful Victorian house is a pile of charcoal and a few scattered bricks. Pete can make out some vague outlines of the frame of the staircase, the metal fuse box, the warped plastic of the foreman’s office table. The air is filthy and heavy with leftover smoke, a few errant spots on the ground still lightly smoldering. From behind him comes the muted sound of Andy talking to the fire marshal. He hears the words “electrical” and “accidental” and “roof.” Mostly he hears the oxidized, squeaking crunch of burnt up oak wood under his Adidas where the porch steps used to be.

“There’s not much to be done tonight,” he hears Andy say, suddenly closer and clearer than before. Pete startles and Andy stops when he sees the tell-tale blanching of Pete’s face that means he hasn’t heard a single thing that’s been said. “Pete?”

“I’m listening,” Pete croaks.

Andy purses his lips doubtfully but continues. “Basically, he said there was probably a leak in the roof and it’s possible one of the crew left something plugged in. One spark, and it went up. By the time the Trohmans saw and called it in, it was too late.” He pauses to remove his glasses and wipe at the lenses with the edge of his scarf. Without them, Pete can clearly see the shadows of exhaustion already forming under his eyes. “Like I said, there’s not much to be done tonight. We can go home, try to get some sleep, and tomorrow—”

“No. We’re not going anywhere.” Pete sees the image of his father standing just over Andy’s shoulder and glaring disapprovingly, swirling ice cubes around a glass of scotch. _Explain to me the hold up._ He can never explain this, not in a way that will satisfy his father. Acts of God don’t exist in Peter Wentz’s world. Pete has to get ahead of this. He has to be the one to tell him, first thing in the morning, before the fucking _sun_ , and he has to be armed and ready for the inquisition.

Andy’s eyebrows pinch together as he grits his teeth. “ _Pete_ —”

“No! I want you to get Jon on the phone, get him over here. We need to figure out what we’re dealing with. We need to know how we’re going to move forward.” Pete runs a hand through his hair, tugging just a little to make sure his neurons are still firing. The sting in his scalp is satisfying. “This is obviously setting us back, I mean, this is about as set back as you can fucking _be_ , but I need to know by exactly how much. We need to set up a new timeline. We’ll have to increase the budget, which goes through the board of directors, and they’ll want to know all of this before they approve anything. I need dates, I need dollar amounts, Andy.”

For a moment, Andy looks surprised, before his expression morphs into one of careful calculation. He asks, “What about Emmy?”

Pete says, “Let me make a phone call.”

Andy smiles. “Me too.”

Pete’s stomach drops a little, his confident façade slipping as Andy walks away to call their contractor. He doesn’t actually know what he’s going to do with Emmy, but he calls the diner anyway and hopes something will come to him before anyone answers. Travie does, and he’s got nothing, and then the line gets handed over to Patrick, and Pete’s even less sure of what to do.

“Pete? Is everything okay?”

“No, um,” his voice sounds weak, even to his ears, “the inn is gone. Completely destroyed.”

“What? Oh my god… What can I do?”

Good question. “Um… I mean, I’m going to be here a while with Andy and the contractor, so I don’t know…”

“I have a sleeper sofa,” Patrick says without hesitation. “The kid can stay here with me. My place is right above the diner, you can come get him any time. He has everything he needs for school, right? Just in case you’re still dealing with things in the morning, I can get him on the bus.”

Pete’s heart clenches tight in his chest, and for a moment he can’t even breathe, can just think _an angel, you’re a fucking angel_. The words burn in his throat and it takes everything in his power to swallow them down again. _Hold it together, hold it together._ He shakes his head to clear it, forcing himself to focus on one thought at a time. “No, he doesn’t have school, it’s winter break. But if you could run home with him to grab his stuff for bed? He knows where the spare key is hidden. Just… y’know, he gets nervous in new places, and he might not sleep without me or Pikachu there… oh, uh, that’s a Pokemon, it’s this stuffed yellow rat looking thing that he will swear up and down is not a security blanket, but he sure as shit can’t sleep without it. And he’ll probably be more comfortable in his own PJs, and oh! He’ll need his toothbrush and his own toothpaste; he’ll only use that really disgusting blue sparkly shit with the stupid Minions on it. The kid has a thing for weird yellow monsters, what can I say? Oh, and—”

“Pete.” The firm tone of Patrick’s voice stops his anxious babble in its tracks. The air leaves his lungs in a long, luxurious breath. “I’ll take him to get his stuff. You can pick him up any time. Do you have my cell number?” Pete does not. “Okay, then give me yours.” Pete does. “Okay, I’ll text you. Call me whenever you get done. I’ll be up.”

“You don’t have to stay up—”

“I’ll _be up_.”

“Okay. Thank you, Patrick.”

“It’s no problem.”

“I know, but seriously, I just… _thank you_.” Pete’s not sure he can properly convey the gratitude he feels for Patrick in that moment with just those words and his desperate voice alone, but when Patrick says goodbye to him, it sounds sweet and fond. He gets a few nice, peaceful minutes to bask in the glow of that sound after the call ends, and then the headlights of Jon’s pickup truck cut through the dust still lingering in the air, and reality crashes back down around him.

*

It’s three o’ clock in the morning and Patrick has just started to doze off when his phone rings into the quiet dark of his apartment. He fumbles it off the nightstand and clicks the ringer off before it wakes Emmy, checking the caller ID out of habit as he answers.

“Pete?”

“I’m downstairs.” Pete’s voice is reedy and thin, like a wisp of smoke.

“I’ll be right there.”

Shoving his legs into a pair of sweats, Patrick quickly navigates through the dark into the stairwell, sparing a glance at Emmy, sleeping soundly on the futon. Travie’s breakfast-for-dinner idea had the added benefit of the sugar-high-crash that happened around ten, and the kid’s been out cold ever since, curled around the dingy, well-worn Pikachu that Pete rightly assumed he would want. Patrick heads down to the closed-up diner. Through the panes of glass in the door, he can see the shadow of Pete’s form, leaned up against the doorjamb in a way that keeps him out of view.

Patrick opens the door to a pale, stress-worn face and gaunt eyes gazing imploringly at him. He waves him in without a word, locking the door behind him and taking down two of the chairs. Pete slumps into one of them and watches Patrick as he putters around behind the counter, firing up the electric kettle. He makes a face at the cup of chamomile that Patrick sets in front of him. “You’re not drinking coffee in the middle of the night. Come on, it’ll help you sleep.”

Pete sighs like giving up, curling his fingers around the mug, breathing in the fragrant steam. His right elbow rests on the tabletop, hand splayed across his temple, holding his head up. There are smudges of soot and stress in the creases of his eyes. Patrick sips his own tea, taking a seat beside him, and waits for Pete to break the silence.

It takes a while. Both of their mugs are almost empty when Pete finally licks over chapped lips and whispers, “Is Emmy okay?”

“He’s fine, he’s fast asleep upstairs with Pikachu. What happened with the inn?”

Pete shakes his head slowly. “It’s all gone.”

“That’s what you said earlier. What happened?”

Pete explains what Andy told him, about the leaky roof.

“Okay, well, that’s a total accident. There’s nothing you could have done, and you can rebuild, can’t you?”

Pete hesitates, but eventually nods. “Jon says we can. He says he can talk to William and maybe get a hold of the original blueprints, maybe we can recreate it.” The vinyl chair creaks as Pete sits back, scrubbing the hand supporting his head through his hair. It tangles around his fingers and Patrick winces as he yanks it out just a little too hard. “He says it’ll be at least another year before we can open. God, another _year_.” Patrick winces again when the chair scratches across the linoleum as Pete pushes away from the table, bending forward to put his head between his knees and both hands around the back of his neck.

Patrick finds himself setting down his mug and sliding his own chair closer, reaching out a hand. The sight of Pete’s hitching shoulders and the wet sound of his heavy breaths keep him from actually touching him at first. This is not at all Patrick’s wheelhouse; dealing with his own emotions is difficult enough, let alone someone else’s. What can he even do or say to make this better?

Then Pete’s breath hitches on a sob, and Patrick’s hand wraps around his shoulder. Pete whimpers and drops his hands to cling to the backs of Patrick’s knees, pulling him bodily forward until Pete can drop his forehead onto Patrick’s left kneecap. Patrick fumbles a hand behind himself to drag his chair closer and then they both settle into place, Pete letting it out into the cotton of his sweatpants as Patrick runs what he hopes is a soothing hand across his back, pressing hard so Pete can feel it through the wool of his coat. They stay that way for a long while, even after Pete calms down and stops crying. They sit, bent together, breathing in tandem. When Pete does sit up again, the skin around his eyes is red and raw and swollen, the skin above his upper lip tacky with dried spit and tears. Pete pulls his hands back, setting them carefully in his lap, and Patrick follows his lead by putting an inch or two between them, no longer touching but still close enough to feel Pete’s warmth.

“Sorry,” Pete rasps, wiping the back of his arm across his face.

“Don’t apologize.”

“It’s just so fucking frustrating, you know? It’s like every time I think I’m getting somewhere…” He trails off, shaking his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “How am I gonna tell him?”

“Who?”

“My dad. He’s just gonna be so—” Pete covers his face again. “—so disappointed. He knew this would happen. He knew that I would fail.” The last word comes out wobbly and wet.

“Hey.” Patrick leans back in toward him. “You’re not failing.”

“I am. You don’t even know me. This is what I do. I _fail_ , Patrick, I’m a fucking let down to everyone around me, I’m like a fucking weed. I’m a _failure_.”

“You’re _not_.” Without a thought, Patrick grabs both of his wrists, pulling until he can see Pete’s face again. His eyes are molten amber glowing in beds of strained red, shimmering, and hopeless. “Pete, you’re _not failing_.” It doesn’t seem to help much, but Patrick doesn’t know what else to do. He glances at the clock, sees the time ticking closer to dawn, and gets decidedly to his feet. “You need to sleep.”

“You’re right. I should go home.” Pete stands up on shaky legs, turning toward the door. “I don’t wanna wake the kid. I’ll come pick him up in the morning.”

Patrick stares at the quarter-full cups of chamomile and hears someone with his voice say, “Stay here.”

Through the dim street light filtering through the windows, Pete peers at him. The look is not one that Patrick can place. No one has ever looked at him like this before, wide open and raw and searching. The atoms separating them buzz almost audibly, and then Pete takes a step toward the back staircase. “In your apartment?”

“Yeah. Come on.” Patrick leaves the mugs on the table. He’ll deal with them later.

The old stairs whine and groan as they step quietly up them, Patrick leading them into the apartment and helping Pete navigate in the dark to his bedroom nook. The table lamp in the far corner gives them enough warm light to see by, but not enough to wake Emmy up. Pete goes into the other room a moment, to carefully tuck his son in tighter, brush a kiss to his hair as Patrick turns down the bed and tries to find something for Pete to sleep in.

What he finds is an old ratty pair of maroon sweats. They belong to Frank. His heart sinks a little, listening to Pete shuffling around in the apartment behind him. He is suddenly, achingly aware of his presence, every hair on end, every nerve striking in direct response to the steps he takes. When he comes over to stand behind Patrick’s shoulder, he has to suppress the chill that trips down his spine.

“Here, these should fit you.” He hands the sweats over along with a random t-shirt and turns to face Pete.

They are standing so close Patrick is worried Pete can hear how fast his heart is beating. Pete’s eyes are gleaming in the lamplight and Patrick is transfixed. He only knows that Pete is moving closer by the warm gust of breath on his face. This is bad, this is _so bad_ , but Patrick doesn’t move away. In fact, he tilts his head closer, licking over his bottom lip as he braces himself for impact.

Like conceding defeat in a game of chicken, Pete ducks his head at the last second and buries his face in Patrick’s throat as he wraps his arms around his waist. His right hand burns hot through Patrick’s t-shirt, his left cushioned by a handful of cotton. He clings, almost like he’s trying to pull Patrick into his chest and meld the two of them together. Patrick gives in. He tangles one hand in the hair at the back of Pete’s head, the other solid around his shoulders, and clings right back.

Like Pete’s breakdown in the diner, it lasts a long while, Patrick basking in the way their bodies fit together, the heat that they create between them. Pete’s heart is beating just as fast as his. It’s like they’re both waiting for the other one to strike. Eventually, though, Patrick breaks, releasing his hold on Pete’s hair and shifting back in Pete’s arms. His pulse stutters out of time when Pete lifts his head and places a soft, warm kiss on the lower curve of his cheekbone, barely an inch from the corner of his mouth, before letting him go. Patrick’s face feels warm even as his body goes cold as Pete steps fully out of the embrace. There’s a damp patch on his cheek from the press of Pete’s mouth.

“Get some sleep,” Patrick murmurs, moving toward the door.

“Where are you going?”

Pete’s voice sounds so small, so unsure. Patrick turns back to look at him, standing at the end of the bed, hands twisted up in Frank’s sweatpants, shoulders hunched inward. Patrick aches. Every single cell of him wants to crawl under the covers and hold Pete as close as he just was, for as long as it takes for him to lose that fear at the corners of his eyes.

But he can’t.

“It’s almost time to open up, I have to start prepping,” Patrick lies. He already asked Travie to cover for him, knowing that he would be up late. He sees Pete’s mouth start to open, an apology on its way, or a plea, and he can’t deal with either one. “Just get some sleep, Pete. I’ll be here in the morning.”

The lumpy cot in the storage room feels more uncomfortable than ever.

*

When Pete wakes up, the sun shines brightly through the curtains, so he knows it must be well into the morning. It takes a moment of blinking at some seriously ugly brown wallpaper that he doesn’t recognize before he remembers that he is in Patrick’s bed. The sheets around him are fuzzy warm and smell of his own cologne and under that, a musky, stale kind of scent that must be purely Patrick. He burrows into it, shoves his face into the pillow and inhales deeply.

There’s the sudden, alarming thought of a call he should have made to his father hours ago, but the spike of adrenaline is quickly subdued by the smell of coffee and bacon wafting from the kitchenette.

Pete rolls over to find Patrick standing at the stove, flipping the bacon in the pan, making it sizzle. Pete has never actually watched Patrick cook before. He looks good. He’s dressed in dingy khakis and an oversized R.E.M. t-shirt, skinny arms bare, the fedora Pete gave him perched, as ever, on his head. He’s shifting his hips a little and humming quietly, every now and then forming the words but it’s too soft for Pete to catch what they are. Emmy is nowhere in sight, and Pete searches for a part of him that is anxious about that, but it isn’t there. He watches Patrick, lost in his own world, and trusts that everything is fine.

The spell breaks when Patrick looks over at him, startling to realize Pete’s eyes are open and on him. Oil spits out of the pan and Patrick curses under his breath as it catches his wrist. “You’re up,” he says to Pete, stepping back from the stove. “Do you want coffee?”

Pete stares at him.

“Right, stupid question.” Patrick brings over a steaming mugful of precious liquid energy, and Pete’s baser instincts take over as he guzzles nearly the entire thing down in what must be world record time. “Jesus, slow down! How do you not burn yourself? I’m making you wait at least an hour before you have more.”

“I’ll go cheat on you with the Starbucks in Springfield,” Pete mutters, throat sleep-dry, voice rasping. The hot coffee soothes his vocal cords, and after gulping the final sip his next sentence comes out clearer. “They would never deny a man in need.”

“You’re gonna drive thirty minutes just for coffee? You’re an addict,” Patrick jibes. He takes the empty mug back and returns to the stove just in time to remove the bacon and then starts mixing eggs.

Pete lounges back on the bed, reveling in the sight of Patrick making them breakfast. The caffeine starts to kick in, his senses coming alive, and with them, the thoughts of the world outside these walls that he has to rejoin eventually. As domestic and idyllic as this is, the nagging thoughts of the inn and his father and the work ahead of him starts to weigh on his mind again. He turns to grab his phone from where he left it on the nightstand, raising an eyebrow when he finds an empty space.

“Emmy took it downstairs with him,” Patrick explains before Pete can ask. “He wanted to play Angry Birds.”

“Downstairs,” Pete echoes.

“Yeah, I made the mistake of giving him fancy pancakes for dinner last night and now he’s hooked. My measly offering of bacon and eggs just wouldn’t do. Sorry in advance for the sugar high.”

Pete hums a soft chuckle, wishing he still had a mug to warm his hands. He tips his head back against the wooden headboard of the bed as Patrick scrambles the eggs in the pan. “Why are you up _here_ making me measly bacon and eggs? Isn’t the diner open?”

“I called in reinforcements.” Patrick shrugs. “We’re closed tonight for the party anyway, so it’s not like Trav has to pull a double shift.” He dutifully plates the food and then carries it to the tiny, two-seater table pushed up against the far wall. “And I’m making _us_ measly bacon and eggs. Come sit.”

Just like that, the real-world thoughts are gone again. They eat quietly, Pete trying to subtly knock their knees together while it seems that Patrick is trying to subtly do the opposite. It makes Pete smile, but he hides it behind his hand as he swipes bacon grease off his upper lip. Patrick pretends not to watch.

In the easy silence, Pete thinks that maybe, just maybe, this is the start to something. The events of the last twenty-four hours play in his brain on an endless loop, and the parts that make him want to curl up in a ball and die are nothing compared to the parts that make him want to climb up on the rooftop and sing at the top of his lungs. This feels like the morning after a fantastic first date or something, even if the night before was subjectively horrible and he went to bed alone. Tonight’s another night, though. Maybe he’ll get a New Year’s kiss out of it.

And there’s the problem. If Pete were to write down his own qualities, for better or worse, ‘hopeless romantic’ would near the top of the list. He has never done anything except fall fast and fall hard. His romance with Darcy could only be described as a whirlwind, a pure vortex of feelings that took over every aspect of his life within months of their first meeting. Back then, everyone chalked it up to the hastiness of youth – they were only eighteen, after all. And while he hasn’t exactly delved into any serious relationships since then, Pete is the kind of guy that falls in love for five minutes waiting in line at Subway or filling his tank at the gas station. None of those people even have the chance to do anything to make him love them and he does just the same. It’s no wonder – confronted with Patrick’s unconditional support, his infallible reliability, and his unfairly lovely face – that Pete is helpless against the hearts that have taken up residence in his eyes.

When it’s for real, Pete doesn’t just fall in love, he crashes into it, he burns up in its atmosphere.

Plates empty, Patrick gets up to clean them and Pete goes to the bathroom to change into his clothes from the night before, grimacing at the lingering stench of smoke caught up in the fibers. Together they gather Emmy’s things and make their way down to the diner, Pete a few steps ahead. He can hear the regulars at their tables chatting away, the clink of spoons mixing cream and sugar into coffee, the scrape of knives and forks against ceramic. He looks over his shoulder to say something to Patrick as he enters the dining room.

They both stutter to a halt and the words die on his lips at the wall of silence they walk into. Pete has a momentary concern that he may have gone suddenly deaf, it’s so abrupt and jarring. Then Emmy cries, “Dad! Look at these pancakes!” and when Pete turns his head, he sees that everyone has stopped talking at once, and are now staring directly at him and Patrick. Gabe and William in particular are seated at the far end of the counter, practically climbing on top of each other to ogle at them with their mouths and eyes agape.

It takes a moment to register how this looks, the two of them stumbling down from Patrick’s apartment together, Patrick begging off his usual morning hours to stay upstairs instead. Normally, Pete would have no shame about it. He spent most of his life under the microscope of the public eye, after all, and it’s made him the exact opposite of the type who doesn’t kiss and tell; he’s the guy who kisses and writes a novel about it. Except, there was no kissing, just an electrical fire and a three-a.m. meltdown. Still, he feels embarrassed somehow, like he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. The feeling deepens when he catches sight of Travie standing across from his son at the other end of the counter, eyeing them with a thinly veiled moue of concern.

Patrick’s hand on his shoulder gets his feet moving in the right direction again, and it’s like the movement switches a flip. The other diners go back to their own meals and conversations. Gabe and William dip their heads together and whisper furiously. Emmy watches him approach with a chocolate-smeared smile, reaching out to him with fingers that are visibly sticky with syrup and marshmallows.

“Dad! These are the pancakes we had last night, they’re _so_ good! Travie made them special! Try them, try them! It’s like when we go camping, but better!” It’s the largest collection of words Pete’s heard out of him in a while, so an epic sugar rush must be in full swing.

“Oh man, those look great, bud,” he says, taking a seat beside him. Patrick is still standing near the stairs, talking to Gabe and William now with a sour expression and his arms crossed. All three of them glance at Pete at the same time. Patrick makes an apologetic face and Pete turns away to scrape up a forkful of pure sugar. It’s rich and decadent on his tongue, shocking away the lingering saltiness from his eggs and bacon. It’s absolutely delicious. “Trav, these are amazing!”

Travie is coming out of the kitchen, running plates to a table, and he barely spares Pete a glance, just nods in acknowledgement and keeps going. The pancakes settle oddly in Pete’s stomach.

“Alright, Em, we should get out of here,” he says after a beat. “We gotta get you over to Amy’s soon.”

“Yeah!” Emmy shovels in the last large bite of his breakfast and jumps to his feet.

“Hold on, hold on, clean your face up,” Pete chides, passing him a wad of napkins. Emmy half-heartedly scrubs them across his mouth, but still manages to get most of the mess. The kid is already barreling toward the door with tunnel-vision focus. Pete wants to say a proper goodbye to Patrick, but he’s still caught up in conversation and the mood in the diner is approaching awkward. Making a big production out of saying goodbye would only make it worse. So, Pete just catches Patrick’s eye and gives him a small wave as they depart. It’s fine, he tells himself on the walk home, they’ll see each other later.

By the time they get showered and into fresh clothes and into the car, Emmy’s calmed down a bit and for that, Pete is thankful. The last thing he wants to do is drop a hyperactive ten-year-old off to Amy’s parents with no warning. They live across town, not too far from the inn. Shit, the _inn_.

“Uh, hey, Em, where did my phone end up?”

The wide-eyed look his son gives him in the rearview mirror is all the answer he needs. Perfect.

Andy is positively fuming when Pete pulls up to the inn twenty minutes later. Pete does his best to look properly ashamed as he gets out of the car. Jon and his crew are there, too, surveying the area and taking pictures of the larger pieces of debris.

“Where the hell have you been?!” Andy barks immediately, storming over to him. “I’ve been calling your phone non-stop!”

“Sorry, sorry, Emmy was using it and then he left it in the house, or maybe the diner,” Pete rattles off. “I haven’t even had a chance to look at it yet today.”

“Well, I had to have a talk with your _father_ ,” Andy says ominously. Pete gulps. “Needless to say, he isn’t thrilled. Even less so that he couldn’t get in touch with you about it and therefore had to call _me_.”

“I’m sorry,” Pete says again, as earnestly as possible. “I’m here now. Get me up to speed.”

*

The afternoon goes by quickly, the situation not seeming quite so life-or-death in the light of day. It’s terrible, it absolutely _sucks_ , but it’s salvageable and Jon is optimistic that they can make up some time along the way. The process of dealing with their insurance and clearing the site will still take a little while, but it’s not the end of the world. Possibly, Pete can present this to his father in such a way that he accepts it and moves on from giving him grief about it. Possibly. He plans to buy Andy a spectacular gift for dealing with that for him.

Joe shows up as the time ticks toward twilight, jumping out of his pickup with a large basket under his arm.

“Hey, guys!” he greets, overly cheerful. “My mom wanted me to bring this over for you.” The basket makes a loud thunk as Joe hefts it onto the hood of Andy’s car. It’s overflowing with little glass jars and loaves of bread wrapped up in checkered cloth. Joe points to each one as he explains it – “… zucchini bread, pickled radishes, oh! Hot pepper jelly, that shit is insane…” – until Andy finally places a hand on the basket and pulls it away from him.

“Thank you, Joe,” he says tightly, but not without a smile. “We really appreciate it.”

Joe grins and leans back against the car, eyeing the space where the inn used to be with a grimace and a low whistle. “Damn, that’s really a shame.”

Pete huffs a laugh. “Yeah, man. It’s gonna be a process to recover.”

“Well, anything I can do to help, you let me know!” Joe slaps a hand to his shoulder amicably, then tightens his fingers and lowers his voice, dropping any semblance of professional, neighborly politeness. “Hey, Pete? Can I talk to you for a sec?”

It throws Pete off balance, but he manages to nod and ignore the way Andy eyes the two of them suspiciously. They move a few feet away, Joe craning his neck back and forth to make sure there’s nobody else around them. When he crosses his arms and fixes Pete with a half-formed glare, the out-of-step feeling only gets stronger.

Joe starts haltingly, “Look… I just wanted to ask you… I had _heard_ … but then, I don’t want to jump to any conclusions…”

“What, Joe?”

“Did you stay at Patrick’s last night?”

Pete knows that Joe has every intention of keeping this conversation between them, but he is impressively bad at speaking below a dull roar, so his voice carries easily across the drive. Andy’s head whips up so fast, there’s no way he didn’t hear exactly what Joe just said, and Pete’s stomach drops at the look on his face. Like exasperation, or worse, disappointment. Pete forces himself to ignore it for now, focusing his attention on Joe and trying not to feel guilty. He has no reason to be.

“Yeah, he let my kid crash and then he offered to let me stay, too… I mean, he was just looking out for me. He’s my friend.” It comes out defensive. Pete can feel himself starting to blush, which is ridiculous. Nothing even _happened_. “Honestly, Patrick was just being a nice guy. He didn’t even… he had to open the diner anyway, we didn’t like… share a bed. We’re just friends.”

“Okay, I guess I just wanted to check. You guys are friends, that’s great,” Joe says. His pause is loaded, like he’s debating with himself, and then he goes on, “So then you know he’s got a boyfriend?”

Of all the things he expected Joe to say, _that_ was certainly not on the list. Pete’s whole body goes rigid with surprise, his eyes slowly widening as the words sink in.

Joe deflates as he watches his reaction. “Shit. I was worried he hadn’t told you. Especially since it seems like you maybe—”

“No!” Pete objects quickly, _loudly_. Joe flinches and he takes a slow breath, then tries again. “No. I don’t. I-I’m sorry I… yelled, um, but yeah, we’re just…” _Friends,_ he means to say next, but his brain is spinning, spinning, spinning. “Wait, so, he has a _boyfriend?”_

“Yeah. His name’s Frank.” Joe looks uneasy. “Damn, I can’t believe he didn’t tell you.”

Pete’s head aches with confusion. “But how is that possible? I’ve been here almost four months. I see him _every day_. There’s never anyone else with him. He never even talks about anyone.”

“Frank’s in a band,” Joe explains. “He’s away a lot, on tour and stuff, but not usually this long. The band got kind of big the last few years. I think they were recording a new album this time.” He pauses again and then says with a shrug, “Look, I’m not sure why Patrick didn’t say anything, but Patrick can be a real idiot sometimes. Frank is supposed to be back any day now.”

Pete nods slowly, his head heavy and numb. “How… I mean, how did they— how _long_ have they—?”

The uneasiness deepens in Joe’s face, his mouth twisting uncomfortably. “A while, um, maybe three or four years?” Pete’s stomach sinks. _Four years?_ “I’m not sure exactly, you’d have to ask Patrick for the gory details.”

“Right.”

“His band is pretty cool, though. They’re called The Killjoys?” Joe laughs abruptly at the way Pete’s mouth drops open. “I take it you’ve heard of them.”

Anyone even remotely interested in music outside of the world of the Billboard top forty has heard of The Killjoys. Their debut album is considered a cult classic, their sophomore album didn’t leave the CD player in his car for _months_ , and their most recent album went platinum in less than a year. In their early days, they crossed paths with Arma Angelus a couple of times, poorly organized showcases in dingy Chicago basements, but he never actually met any of them. Back then, they were partiers, and Arma was straight edge. Pete can sort of recall what their guitar player, Frank, looks like: small, sleek, dark-haired, skin scattered with tattoos. He likes to thrash around onstage, break mic stands and drum setups, spit at the crowd and his bandmates, rub himself all over their lead singer like a cat in heat. He’s brash and rude and kind of unnecessarily hot.

And he’s dating Patrick.

“Sorry, man,” Joe says awkwardly.

Pete forces a smile, scrapes out a laugh. “Hey, don’t sweat it! Like I said, me and Patrick are just friends. I’m sure he was going to tell me. It’s no big deal.” He wishes he felt as confident as he sounds. He wishes it didn’t feel like getting pushed down and stomped on. “Anyway, we’ve got some stuff to finish up here. I’ll see you at the party later.”

*

Patrick steps out of his truck and directly into a puddle of ice-cold, grey sludge. He curses under his breath, trying to shake the wet off his foot before it sets into his sock, walking around to open the hatch of the truck bed. The plastic crate of champagne bottles – well, two champagne, four sparkling grape juice – rattles dangerously as he hefts it out and onto his hip, just barely managing to close the hatch one-handed.

Snow crunches underfoot as Patrick makes his way toward the diner. The party is already in full swing, he’s sure. It’s almost eight now, and he’s in a sour mood from getting stuck in traffic on his way back from the Walmart in Springfield, but he tries to school himself into a party attitude. At least he’ll get to see Pete.

In fact, as he approaches the first window, he peers through and _does_ see Pete, sitting with Andy and Joe at the table on the other side of the pane. Pete is facing him, and he inevitably looks over, catching Patrick’s eye. Patrick smiles automatically, waving a hand.

Pete has an odd expression on his face. He looks away.

Feeling awkward, Patrick hangs his head as he makes his way inside, eyes firmly on his shoes. It doesn’t feel like a party when he walks in, the music low and the atmosphere subdued. It, kind of, feels like a funeral.

Patrick shifts the crate of drink onto the nearest empty chair. The conversation around him peters to a halt for the second time today.

“Hey, baby.”

Patrick freezes. Slowly, he looks up.

Seated at the counter, leaning back on his elbows, Frank is grinning at him from beneath a long, moppy mess of ink black hair. “I’m home.”

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading! All comments and kudos are appreciated.
> 
> Also! You can find me on tumblr at looks-a-scream.tumblr.com <3


	4. stand-alone and misunderstood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long one, folks, and we're also gonna start earning that explicit rating. Tags have been updated accordingly (also because I didn't have one for angst???).
> 
> Enjoy!

The club was dark and dingy, full of terrible-smelling fake smoke, vibrating with the bass of some dance song Patrick only vaguely recognized. It wasn’t really a club, more like a shitty dive bar that hosted raves on the weekend. The Metro staff were regulars because it was next door to the venue, and the bartenders gave them free drinks all the time. Not that Patrick was a big drinker. He’d only just turned twenty-one in the spring and spent too much time locked away in his dorm room with his composition book to attend parties or hang at the bar all night. His tolerance level was zero.

That said, Patrick was drunk. The sound guy, Earl, had pressed a shot into his hand the moment they walked through the door, and then Maggie the box office manager handed him another, and then one of the opening band’s tour manager (whose name Patrick couldn’t remember) gave him a gin and tonic, and then it all hit him at once and he had to slump down into an empty booth, think about how it had objectively been the best night of his life, and try not to hurl.

When Patrick had arrived at the venue that afternoon for sound check, he had found a group of four raggedy-looking characters gathered in the front lobby with Alec, the venue’s GM. They all looked stressed, one of them in the middle of a loud, raging kind of rant. The guy was almost as short as Patrick, with a fiery orange mohawk and gauged ears.

“Fuck that!” the guy was bellowing, gesticulating wildly. “We’re not cancelling! Fuck Otter, it’s not our fault he fucked off back to Jersey in the middle of a tour!”

“Frank, we can’t play without a drummer,” said one of the other guys, tall with a giant frizz-ball of hair and a calm, reasonable tone. The other two stood to the side and watched tiredly with their arms crossed, one a mousy, skinny kid with glasses and a beanie shoved halfway down his face, and the other some kind of wannabe vampire who also sort of looked like a chubby Billy Corgan, with a death grip on a paper coffee cup from the Starbucks down the street. Alec looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. “The label’s replacement will be here tomorrow, it’s just one show.”

The little guy, Frank, scoffed, scrambling in his pocket, pulling out a beat-up pack of cigarettes. The over-(or maybe under-)caffeinated vampire perked up at the sight. “No way, fuck that! We can figure it out! We’re not cancelling! We don’t cancel shows!”

“Well, what do you suggest, Frank?” The guy with the hair was starting to look irritated. “Wanna lay your guitar down for a night and fill in yourself? I’m sure I can manage without you. I’m sure those Dixieland fills will work _real_ nice for us.”

“Hey, Toro, I suggest you _bite me_ , how ‘bout that?” Frank snarled.

“Guys, don’t fight,” the glasses guy said mildly.

Just then, Alec turned and spotted Patrick lingering by the door. His face lit up. “Hold that thought, guys, I think I just found a solution. Patrick! Get your ass over here!”

Which was how Patrick ended up filling in on drums for The Killjoys, a small up-and-comer from New Jersey, facing a crowd of about two hundred hardcore kids and regretting the day that he ever told anyone at work that he could play the drums. The set went alright, all things considered, and the frizzy haired guy, Ray Toro, even gave him a friendly slap on the back afterward, so he assumed he did okay. They were the last act to play, and Patrick got swept up in the after-show rituals of loading out gear and packing up the house equipment, losing the band in the shuffle. It would have been nice to thank them for letting him fill in, apologize for any screw ups, do some basic networking, but whatever. Instead, he found himself dragged along by the other crew guys to the dive next door, drunk and horizontal in a filthy vinyl booth, brain spinning as he thought about the show and hoped he hadn’t looked like too much of an ass.

“Hey, dude, are you okay?”

Patrick looked up blearily through the smoke and found Frank standing at the end of the booth, close enough that Patrick could feel the warmth of him against his knees. Slowly, carefully, Patrick sat himself up, trying to ignore the way the room sloshed and swirled around him. Frank slid into the seat across from him, tipping a bottle of Bud Light into his mouth. The way he did it looked so smooth, elegant, attractive. Patrick stopped that line of thought right there. With his thin blond hair tucked under an old baseball cap, patchy sideburns, and paunch hidden beneath his hoodie, Patrick was suffering no delusions about being in Frank’s league. He doubted they were even playing the same sport.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he replied finally, voice rough. “Jus’ a little wasted, I think.”

Frank grinned halfway. “Is that so? Well, you probably don’t want this shot I bought you, then, huh?” He gestured to the shot glass he’d placed on the table without Patrick noticing, so full of amber liquid that some had spilled out onto the sticky tabletop.

Patrick eyed it warily. “Uh, no, prob’ly not a good idea.”

“You know, just because it’s in a shot glass, doesn’t mean you have to _shoot_ it.”

“Actually, Einstein, I think that’s exactly what that means.”

Frank laughed, a manic, bubbly kind of giggle that skittered its way up Patrick’s spine. Frank sipped his beer and gestured toward the glass. “You don’t have to drink it, man. I was just tryin’ to say thanks.” He leaned a little closer over the table. “I gotta say, I was impressed. You were really good.”

It was uncomfortable, finding himself under the close attentions of someone like Frank. Someone so effortlessly cool, so stupidly hot with his tight red t-shirt and filthy baggy jeans. Onstage, he had thrashed and spit like a rabid dog. Patrick had tried not to stare at him, frenetic and wild, had tried to concentrate on the drum lines he had learned only hours before, huddled in one of the green rooms with a Walkman and a shoddy pair of headphones.

At one point, though, Frank had come over to the kit and shouted the words at him while attempting to comfortably straddle the kick drum. For his part, Patrick kept his head down, eyes hidden under the brim of his ball cap. A moment later, Frank had stumbled up again, but tangled his feet in the cables and ended up toppling over, taking one of the cymbals with him. Without missing a beat, he’d rolled over, writhed around until he somehow managed to get to his feet again, and was screaming into the lead singer’s microphone like nothing had happened. When the song ended, he came over and righted the toppled cymbal, flashing Patrick a chivalrous grin and a wink. Patrick thought about that moment, thought about the stripe of inked belly skin he had caught sight of when Frank was rolling around on the stage, and met the other man’s eyes.

“Yeah, you were really good, too.”

Frank smiled not-so-humbly and shrugged. When Patrick glanced toward the bar, he saw the rest of Frank’s band downing their own shots, their undead Corgan singer (whose actual name was Jared, maybe?) shooting looks their way every few seconds.

“Shouldn’t you be with your band?” Patrick asked.

“You are my band,” Frank replied, then smirked. “For tonight, anyway.”

“I guess that’s true.” Patrick caught the flick of maybe-Jared’s black fringe as he snuck another glance over his shoulder. “Your boy looks freaked.”

Frank didn’t even check to see who Patrick was talking about, just rolled his eyes. “Gerard _is_ a freak. He doesn’t like it when we split up. ‘Specially now that Otter bailed, he’s all about the comradery.”

“That’s all it is? You guys aren’t…” Patrick was too drunk to make a coherent gesture, but he flailed his left hand around until Frank seemed to understand him. It was a risky thing to imply, and normally Patrick would display a little more tact, but apparently that whole line about liquid courage was true. Frank and his band ran in an aggressive, testosterone-heavy scene where saying the wrong thing to the wrong person could get you jumped, or worse. Patrick normally _hated_ working the hardcore shows for that very reason.

But The Killjoys weren’t exactly a typical hardcore band, and for his part, Frank just laughed. “Me and Gee? No way, man. He’s got a girlfriend back home, believe it or not.”

“And you?”

Frank smiled innocently around another sip of beer. The muscles in his neck worked slowly as he swallowed, and Patrick felt his mouth go a little dry. Maybe he did want that shot. Frank wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and said, “Nope.” His lips smacked wetly around the sound. After a beat, he chugged back the rest of his drink, wiped his mouth again as he set the empty bottle down with a firm thunk, and slid to the end of the bench seat, hands going into his pockets. He paused, and then looked at Patrick over a hunched shoulder, quirking an eyebrow at him. “You smoke?”

No, Patrick didn’t. It was hell on his voice, and while he had no intention of fronting a band any time soon, he still wanted to keep his pipes intact. Plus, you know, the whole risk of lung cancer thing. But there was a gleam in Frank’s eyes that was hard to ignore. He found himself nodding and sliding out of the booth, following the other man through the groups of people crowding the bar, ignoring the stares of Frank’s bandmates as they headed for the exit. There was a designated smoking area in the alley next to the bar, with butt depots set up and a wooden bench against one wall. They bypassed that, heading down the street to where the band’s van and trailer were parked. It was a standard fifteen-passenger van with cargo doors on one side, covered in fan graffiti and other band’s stickers. Frank cursed as he grabbed a ticket off the windshield, pulling a set of keys out of his pocket and unlocking the side door.

“Let’s smoke in here, it’s cold,” Frank said easily, climbing into the very back seat. It wasn’t that cold, not really, August heat still lingering in the crisper air of mid-September, but Patrick let the booze in his system make the questionable decision for him and let his feet follow Frank in. He pulled the door shut behind him and collapsed onto the seat. He could feel the thud of his heart in his throat as Frank pulled two cigarettes from his beat-up pack.

When he held one of them out to him, Patrick shook his head automatically. Before he could stop himself, he said, “I don’t actually smoke.”

Frank’s eyes widened in surprise, his other hand pausing on the way to light his own cigarette. He stared at Patrick for a moment, considering him carefully. Then he took the unlit cigarette from between his lips and put it back into the pack next to Patrick’s rejected one. The paper filter stuck to his chapped bottom lip for a split second, and he hissed as it pulled free, flicking out his tongue to rub at the torn spot. Patrick copied the motion without thinking, and his stomach twisted up in a knot when Frank’s eyes glanced down to watch.

Frank turned on the seat, pulling both legs up. His knees dug into the side of Patrick’s thigh, hot through two layers of denim. For a long moment, they just stared at each other, breathing softly in the quiet dark of the back of the van. Finally, Frank shifted up on his knees and leaned into Patrick’s space, bracing himself over him with a hand on either side of his head, gripping tight to the foam of the headrest.

“If I’m reading this all wrong, you can totally punch me,” Frank murmured. “We have a photoshoot in a couple days, but a black eye would probably fit the aesthetic.”

“Wha—?”

Then Frank kissed him, pressing their chests flush together. It was slow at first, testing, waiting. Patrick’s drunk brain took a beat to get on board, to realize that Frank was waiting for _him_ , either to shove him away or kiss him back, holding his body tense and his limbs a little awkward. Patrick’s arms came up to wrap around Frank’s slim waist and pull him closer. He slid his mouth open around Frank’s bottom lip, his tongue soothing over the torn spot, tasting copper.

“Oh, fuck yeah,” Frank grunted against his mouth, and swung a leg over Patrick’s lap, splaying them in a wide straddle and grinding down. His hands fisted into his hair, knocking his cap off onto the floor.

Patrick groaned, gripping tight to the back of Frank’s shirt, kissing him with everything he had. He savored the crush of their mouths together, tongues slick and pressing, both of them overeager. Frank kept grinding down against him, moaning encouragement when he felt Patrick start to get hard. The jut of Frank’s own erection was impossible to ignore, pressed up snug to Patrick’s stomach. Frank groaned, whispering thickly, “Been half-cocked since I saw you play. Wanted to climb right over the kit.” Patrick moaned, imagining it, how Frank would shove his guitar out of the way and crawl into Patrick’s lap, how the wobbly throne would provide no support and he would have to hold him in place to keep from falling. Lost in the fantasy, he slid his hands down to Frank’s ass, grabbing on and squeezing the next time Frank ground down on his lap. Mouth damp against his throat, Frank let out another stuttering groan, tonguing at Patrick’s earlobe before he growled, “You wanna fuck me?”

Patrick nearly swallowed his own tongue, his whole body flashing hot. He gripped Frank’s ass tight again, arching his own hips helplessly.

Frank chuckled darkly. “Would you let me fuck you?”

Patrick was dizzy at the thought. His brain whirred and he managed to answer, halting, “What… whatever, I… _shit_ —”

“Whatever?” Frank leaned back a bit, staring down at him with glittering, impish hazel eyes. “Interesting…” He slid back on Patrick’s lap, hands coming down to get familiar with the fly of Patrick’s jeans. His mouth kept sucking kisses to the side of his neck, speaking lowly in between each one. “Unfortunately, we don’t have time or space or _supplies_ for either.” As the button and zipper came undone, Patrick lifted his hips a little to help Frank get the jeans far enough down his thighs. “You know how it is, in the van.”

“I don’t, actually,” Patrick said on a gasp as Frank’s fingers molded to the shape of him through his boxers, the fabric wet with precome and sticking not-quite-unpleasantly against sensitive flesh. Frank hummed appreciatively at the feel of it, the way Patrick squirmed beneath him.

“Nah? You never hooked up in any other tour vans?” Then, under his breath, “Jesus, dude, you’re fucking _hung_ …”

Despite the compelling heat of Frank’s hand around his cock and the muscles in Frank’s thighs squeezing up against his own and Frank’s open mouth against his face, breath hot and smelling like hops and Frank’s filthy words rattling around in his brain, Patrick mustered an affronted glare, grunting out, “No, I’m not a fucking groupie.”

“You’re right, baby,” Frank purred, giggling with his wet mouth to Patrick’s temple. “Tonight, you’re in the fucking band.” His fingers peeled back the waistband of his boxers, revealing Patrick’s hard, straining cock. When he had the material shoved down a few good inches, Frank bit lightly at Patrick’s cheek and slid his hand around the now-bare skin. His breath caught in his throat, a hungry groan fighting its way out, and Patrick tried not to feel too smug about it. Frank’s hand moved down to wrap loosely around the base, fingernails scratching in the coppery hair there. With a loud smack, Frank kissed the side of Patrick’s face, and said with a menacing grin, “Allow me to give you and your monster cock the rock star treatment.”

“Oh, shut the fuck u— _uh!_ Oh _fuck…”_ Patrick trailed off, throwing his head back against the seat as Frank slid smoothly to his knees, opening his mouth wide and taking him down into his throat. At twenty-one years old, Patrick had experienced his fair share of blowjobs, some excellent, some enthusiastic but mediocre, some better left forgotten. He had never felt anything even close to the sensation of Frank working his mouth over him, tongue curling around him expertly, spit pooling at the corners of his mouth and dripping down to Patrick’s balls. He held himself as still as possible, trying not to be an asshole, not to grab Frank by the head and haul him closer, hands grasping desperately at the dirty cushion beneath him. Frank’s eyes flashed at him from beneath his dark lashes, and then he grabbed one of Patrick’s hands and shoved it into his hair.

It didn’t last long after that. Frank let Patrick come in his mouth, and then grabbed up someone’s t-shirt from the floor and spat into it, which was disgusting but also weirdly hot. He yanked Frank up and spread him out across the seat, crawling on top of him and licking his own lingering taste from his mouth. Frank squirmed and moaned as Patrick got his fly open and a hand into his jeans. There was apparently no underwear to worry about, as he found himself immediately with a handful of Frank’s cock, hard and leaking and fitting perfectly in his grasping fingers. Patrick stroked him hard, and Frank whined, writhed, muttered, “Shit, shit, not on my shirt—” Patrick shoved at the bottom hem of the t-shirt roughly, sliding it up Frank’s torso, biting kisses to the birds tattooed on his stomach, the ones he’d only caught brief glimpses of during the set. He bit down into the meat of one of his hips with a growl, and Frank lost it, bucking up underneath him as he snarled and cursed, cock twitching and spurting his release all over his stomach. Before he could bitch about the mess or grab another bandmate’s clothes, Patrick leaned down and lapped it up with slow, broad strokes of his tongue, and then pressed himself knee-to-chest against Frank, sliding their mouths together, slick with Frank’s release. The valiant twitch of Frank’s dick against his thigh followed by the way Frank’s body shook was almost as satisfying as the orgasm.

“That was really fuckin’ dirty, dude,” Frank breathed, voice fuzzy with afterglow. “That angel face had me totally fuckin’ fooled. Shit, I need a cigarette.”

The others found them half an hour later, fully clothed and lounging together on the backseat while Frank smoked, the two of them deep in discussion about Otis Redding. No one said anything about them hooking up, even though it must have been extremely obvious. Not even a friendly wisecrack. Frank didn’t gloat at all, either. Instead, Ray made noise about wanting to get on the road soon, and Patrick took his cue to leave. He said his goodbyes to each of them, trying to stay casual, thanking them again for letting him fill in. Frank stopped him just long enough to find a Sharpie and hold it out. “You gonna give me your number, or what?”

Patrick scrawled it onto Frank’s palm, ignoring the looks coming from Gerard and the bass player as they climbed into the van, thinking doubtfully to himself that it was a stupid thing to do, Frank was probably just being polite. He probably thought Patrick was lying about not being a groupie, that he received top tier blowjobs from wild little punk guitarists in the back of smelly tour vans all the time, but whatever. What could it hurt?

“I’ll only call you from the nastiest truck stops, I promise.” Frank smacked another wet kiss to the side of his face, and Patrick made his exit.

He stood on the curb as Ray started up the van. Through the back window, Frank watched him, hands folded over the headrest, chin resting on his arm, Patrick’s baseball cap perched on his head. Shit, he didn’t even realize he wasn’t wearing it.

As the van jerked into motion, Frank lifted his right hand and pressed it against the glass, so that Patrick could see the sloppy numbers drawn there. Frank flashed him a beaming grin that warmed him down to his toes, burrowed under his skin and wrapped around his insides. The van pulled away from the curb and headed down the street, stopping at the first light and then turning left. Patrick stayed put until he couldn’t see the back of the trailer anymore, and then turned to head for the El.

As he laid down in his bed back at the dorms, he stared at the ceiling and thought about Frank’s smile, reveling in the way the sight of it had simmered through his veins. It really had been the best night of his life.

*

His grin is still the same.

That’s all Patrick can think at first, struck dumb and staring in the middle of the diner. He’s aware that there are people around them, everyone watching and waiting for them to have some grand, dramatic reunion. They’re gonna have to wait a minute because Patrick is struggling to process this. All he can do is stare at Frank and take inventory of everything that has changed in the last six months.

His hair is _long_ , longer than Patrick’s ever seen it before. He’s added to his tattoo collection, large spaces on his arms that were bare in June now filled with black and grey ink, a flourish of linework and color on the left side of his neck to match the scorpion adorning the right side. The clothes he’s wearing hang off of him in an exaggerated way, which Patrick would think is an intentional choice, that he’s purposely buying oversized clothes, except his face looks too sharp and gaunt, his bony wrists further giving away the truth of the matter, which is that he’s practically withered away into nothing. Patrick’s first instinct is to get in the kitchen and make him a five-course meal consisting of nothing but carbs, which he thinks is a good sign. His next instinct is to turn and gauge Pete’s expression, which is definitely not.

Travie clears his throat, quiet but enough to snap Patrick out of it. He stumbles across the linoleum until he’s close, enough to reach out and wrap Frank up in a hug. The other man sighs heavily, relaxing into him. He smells strongly of cigarettes and unwashed clothes and airport staleness clinging to his hair, but it’s oddly comforting. Their bodies fit together nicely. They always have.

Around them, the others retire back to their own conversations, unimpressed by such an anticlimactic display. The music gets turned up a little louder and changed to something with a solid beat. Someone pops a bottle of champagne. Patrick pulls back from Frank and returns his tired smile. “Hey. You’re early.”

“Yeah, I know,” Frank says. “Trav thought it would be fun to surprise you.”

Okay, Patrick’s gonna have to have a word with Travie about that later. For now, he just says, “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.” Frank sounds fond, running his hands along the sides of Patrick’s coat. His smile falters when he continues, “You should know, the guys are here.”

“The band?”

“Yeah, their connecting flight got cancelled. I said they could crash here, I mean, it’s just for one night. They’re upstairs. That okay?”

“Sure,” Patrick says after a beat. “Of course, yeah, we’ve got room.”

Frank beams at him, dragging his fingers down the bare curve of Patrick’s cheek. “You look different.”

“Bad different?”

There’s a flicker of familiar want in his eyes. “Nah. Not at all.” Frank leans in for a kiss, and Patrick gives it to him even though his mind reminds him that Pete might be watching from the corner. When Frank pulls back again, he says, “Alright, I’m gonna go rinse off and help the guys get settled in.”

“I’ll set up the cot, for whoever wins the thumb war.”

“Thanks, babe!”

Frank disappears upstairs and Patrick retreats into the storage room. Once he’s alone, he slumps down onto the cot – the blankets still mussed from where he slept that very morning while Pete and Emmy slept upstairs – and puts his head in his hands for a second. The thing is, he’s happy to see Frank, he really is. He really did miss him. His easy laugh, his careless confidence, the way he lectures Reverend Gould about the meat-industrial complex when he sees him walk by carrying a McDonald’s bag. Just his _face_ , so breathtakingly pretty even when he’s underfed and exhausted and covered in plane grime.

They need to talk, him and Frank. He’s come to realize that their relationship is kind of fucked up, and he’s been mentally preparing himself to confront it. It’s just, he thought he had a few more days before he _had_ to, and now Frank is here, and his whole band is here, and it’s just… a lot.

To make matters worse, there’s Pete.

Patrick looks up and he’s standing in the doorway, watching him. He looks good, the fringe of his hair tousled up with gel, dressed in a button-down denim shirt tucked into dark jeans and held up with a shiny leather belt, accentuating his slim hips, a pair of ugly white sneakers on his feet. Patrick thought they were at the point where he could tell exactly what Pete’s thinking just by looking at his eyes, but when he meets his gaze, they’re giving nothing away.

“Hey,” Pete mutters. He chews at his bottom lip, gesturing a hand toward the staircase. “So that’s…”

“Frank,” Patrick finishes softly. “He’s— he’s my boyfriend.”

“Right,” Pete nods. “Cool. Pretty progressive town you got here, I guess.” His teeth tear nervously at the corner of his mouth. His breath hitches in a strange way, and then he asks in a rush, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Patrick doesn’t have an answer to that. To be honest, he has no idea why he didn’t tell Pete about Frank. It doesn’t seem like a conscious decision that he made when he thinks back on it, he just… didn’t. If he were still seeing that therapist in Peoria, he’s sure she would have some other, less favorable insights. She would probably have a lot to say about the way Patrick responds now, too, the way his shoulders tighten, and he feels himself glaring, his voice sharp when he says, “It’s not really any of your business.”

Pete boggles at him, releasing his lip to press his mouth into a deep frown. His arms cross over his chest as he shrugs awkwardly. “I guess not. Sorry if I, um… crossed any lines, or anything. I wasn’t trying to… to step on anyone’s toes. You know, I don’t make it a habit of flirting with other people’s boyfriends…”

“You were flirting?” Patrick asks before Pete can continue to stammer on. “Don’t even worry about it, I honestly had no idea.”

Something in Pete’s expression dims, his eyes closing off. After a moment, he smiles again, but it’s pasted on, a caricature of his normal playful grin. “I guess I wouldn’t tell that many people, either, if I was dating someone famous. I mean, that’s Frank Iero, dude, he’s in The Killjoys.”

Patrick scoffs. “Yeah, I’m aware of that. Whatever, he’s not _that_ famous _._ ” He pauses. “Okay, well, maybe to the kids that shop at Hot Topic. But he’s not a _celebrity_ , you know? I’d never be with someone like that, who turned up on TMZ every other week.” He doesn’t mean it as a slight, but Pete clearly takes it that way, stepping back abruptly, flinching in on himself. Patrick is about to take the words back and apologize, but Pete stumbles right into Mikey Way, Killjoys bass player, coming in with his duffle bag over one shoulder and a pillow in his arms.

“Whoa, dude, sorry,” he says in his usual monotone tenor, stabilizing Pete with a hand on his bicep. He looks vastly different from when Patrick first met him. Still tall and rail thin, but instead of his face hiding underneath a sweep of tawny bangs and a beanie and a pair of thick black glasses and an upturned coat collar, he’s got his hair (his _bleach-blond_ hair) pushed up and back, crunchy with product but stylishly swept. There are no glasses obscuring his face, and he’s got on a skin-tight Radiohead shirt.

Pete goes wide-eyed and nonverbal. Mikey raises an eyebrow at him but the corner of his mouth twitches as he moves around him and into the storage room.

“Man, thank god I won that thumb war,” he says to Patrick. “I know he’s my brother, but Gerard kicks in his sleep like a motherfucker. No way I was sharing that sofa bed with him.”

“You could just make Gee sleep down here,” Patrick suggests, and Mikey grins.

“No way, you know how much he would bitch if he had to sleep alone? He’d accuse us all of abandoning him, we’d never hear the end of it.” Mikey drops his pillow and bag on the cot, nudging Patrick’s shoulder in his version of a greeting. “Thanks for letting us crash, dude. Good to see you.”

“Of course, man, no problem. Good to see you, too.”

Pete is still standing in the doorway, staring not at all subtly at Mikey, who returns the look with a confused glance and then leans in, stage-whispers to Patrick, “Should I be worried about this guy?”

“No, that’s just Pete, he’s new in town,” Patrick says easily. “Pete, this is Mikey, he’s in Frank’s band.”

When Mikey holds out a hand, Pete stumbles forward and takes it, still staring at Mikey with shining eyes. “Hey, uh… yeah, I know your band. I really like your band. You guys are awesome. _You’re_ awesome.” Pete smiles, wide and winning, and Patrick knows that look, has had it directed at himself more than once, and he hates to admit that he feels the cold tinge of jealousy when he realizes… Pete’s _into_ Mikey. And really, who can blame him? Patrick glances at the man next to him, nearly half a foot taller, twenty pounds skinnier, and with the chiseled jaw of a Greek god. Fuck, he needs to stop hanging around people that could moonlight as models.

Patrick catches the gleam in Mikey’s eyes and with a sinking feeling registers that Mikey is into Pete, too.

He quickly makes his escape, unwilling to witness whatever is going to happen next, and distracts himself with greeting the other party guests and distributing glasses of champagne and grape juice. Mikey and Pete come out of the storage room not long after, wrapped up in conversation but not touching at all. Patrick forces himself to look away. It’s none of his concern, they’re both adults, they can do what they want.

Frank comes back downstairs with Gerard and Ray in tow a while later, all of their hair slightly damp, wearing fresh clothes. The party really gets into full swing, and after a few glasses of champagne, Patrick forgets to be anything except sublimely happy. His boyfriend is back, sitting in his lap as the clock strikes midnight and planting a sloppy, tipsy kiss to his lips.

Patrick clinks his glass against Travie’s when he holds it out, giving him a smile that says, _See? I told you everything would be fine._

*

Mikey and Pete hit it off.

Mikey and Pete really, _really_ hit it off.

They start out talking about music. Pete gets all of his fanboy ranting about The Killjoys out of the way early, and Mikey takes it in stride, nodding along and thanking him mildly for each compliment. Then they get into nineties alternative bands, inspired by Mikey’s shirt, and they’re off for a good couple of hours. The party carries on around them, but later Pete won’t remember much of it. He’s obviously not drunk at all. Mikey is a little, but that doesn’t matter. It’s just _them_ , there’s a very distinct vibe happening here, and Pete is stupid with it. Their conversation veers off into life stuff, getting-to-know-you games of Twenty Questions, making each other laugh in the awkward pauses where less than savory details are being omitted. Mikey sort of knows who Pete is already, vaguely remembers Arma Angelus and has stayed in his family’s hotels dozens of times, but he doesn’t know any of Pete’s history. It’s nice.

At eleven, Pete notices that Mikey is holding his hand on the tabletop.

At five minutes to midnight, Pete slides his chair close and tucks himself into Mikey’s side.

When the clock strikes, Mikey leans in and kisses Pete breathless.

It’s soft, and slow, and totally insane; he’s only known this person for a handful of hours. But there are sparks simmering up his spine, his head spinning and going fuzzier the further Mikey licks into his mouth. He moans softly, inadvertently, and then pulls back. This is crazy, _totally crazy_ , but – “Do you wanna come back to my place? It’s not far.”

They sneak away while everyone else is hugging and toasting the New Year. Pete is completely wrapped up in Mikey, and so doesn’t notice the blue eyes, blurry with bubbles, watching them leave over Frank’s shoulder.

*

New Year’s Day, Pete wakes up in his canopy bed, sunlight streaming through the balcony doors and into his eyes. He blinks blearily at the long, lithe figure under the covers beside him, a muss of platinum hair against the pillow, and then remembers.

Trudging through the snow down Main Street. Stumbling through the front door. Kissing against the stair railing, up the staircase, and into the bedroom. Shedding articles of clothing one at a time while fingers stroked across each revealed plane of skin. Moaning as they fell into the bed. Spreading himself out with Mikey on top of him, pinning him in place. Heat and sweat and pressure and release.

Pete stretches and every muscle feels tight and sore. It’s been a long time.

Amy’s mother calls and asks if Emmy can stay the rest of the afternoon to go sledding. After he gets off the phone, Pete ignores the missed call notifications from his dad and Andy, and crawls back into bed. Mikey wakes up for round two, and then drags him for round three in the shower. They fire up the Keurig and go through about eight pods between the two of them. Pete never thought he’d meet someone who could rival his coffee intake, but Mikey throws each mug back like a pro. Pete pushes him against the counter and kisses the bitter taste from his tongue.

It’s easy between them. Nothing in Pete’s life is ever this easy.

“My flight leaves at two,” Mikey says once Pete relinquishes his mouth.

Oh, right. There it is. “You don’t live here.”

Mikey lifts an eyebrow and retrieves his mug from the counter behind him. “No. I live in New Jersey. Were you even listening to me last night?” There’s a sparkle in his eye and a slant to his lips that lets Pete know he’s just teasing, but Pete still feels uncertain. He leans out of his space, frowning. Mikey sighs softly, brushing his free hand through Pete’s dark bangs. “What are you thinking?”

Pete gives him a hollow chuckle. “What am I thinking? Geez, I dunno, maybe that this was a fucking stupid idea. It can’t work.”

“Why can’t it work?” Mikey sounds so calm, so reasonable.

“You live halfway across the country, for one thing.”

“I don’t have to.”

“You’ve known me for less than twenty-four hours, for another,” Pete goes on after a moment of shocked silence.

Mikey smiles, a fond quirk of lips in Pete’s direction. “It feels longer than that, though, doesn’t it?” Pete can’t disagree. “There’s something here, Pete. I know you think so, too. Maybe I have to leave now, but I can come back. Soon. And maybe, y’know, if things keep feeling like this… maybe I can relocate.”

Pete laughs a little hysterically but tilts toward Mikey’s chest, hopeful but hesitant. “That’s…”

“A little hasty?” Mikey laughs, too. “Probably. I haven’t even met your kid yet.”

“Shit, my _kid_. You’re sure that doesn’t freak you out?”

“From what you told me, he’s more mature than you are,” Mikey teases, leaning in to bite carefully at Pete’s neck. “I think we’ll both be able to handle it.” He wraps his arms around Pete’s shoulders, bites turning to kisses. “C’mon, we’ve got a couple hours still. Let’s make the most of it.”

*

At first, Pete has his doubts. After all, he was convinced that something real was happening with Patrick for four months, and he had gotten that all wrong. It seems impossible to him that someone like Mikey wants to spend his time chasing after _Pete_ , long distance and complicated and dragging around a cargo hold of baggage. Night after night, though, Mikey proves him wrong.

He calls between ten and eleven, late enough that Pete knows Emmy will be (hopefully asleep) in bed, and they talk for about an hour or so, until guitar music drifts over from the square and Pete knows it’s past midnight. Mikey talks about settling back into life off the road, helping his mom shop for groceries and making sure Gerard doesn’t forget to leave the house now and then. Pete keeps him updated on the inn’s progress, for lack of anything else to talk about at first, and then continuing because Mikey is fairly interested in the project. He’s also determined to keep Pete from freaking out too much. He even sits on Skype with him the afternoon that he finally returns his dad’s phone calls. Enough days have passed that the dressing down is not too significant, but it helps to be able to look up and see Mikey’s encouraging smile when his father’s reprimands hit a little too hard.

It takes a few days to convince Andy that he hasn’t completely lost his mind. There’s an inevitable lecture when Pete re-emerges after New Year’s and Mikey has gone back home. How will it affect Emmy, how will it affect their business, how will it affect Pete’s dedication? All concerns that Pete thinks he alleviates by insisting to Andy that they’re taking things slow (which sort of a lie, but also sort of not, so whatever) and that he’s not going to make any rash decisions. His kid and his business are his top priorities. Andy doesn’t seem entirely convinced, but he backs off when Pete tells him that he put a down payment on the induction range he wants so bad.

Despite all of his worries that things will be awkward, Pete still takes Emmy to Vaughn’s each morning for breakfast. To his surprise and delight, everything remains almost exactly the same, except for the intermittent presence of Frank passing through or ducking behind the counter for a cup of coffee. If either he or Patrick has an issue with Pete dating Mikey, they’re good at hiding it. It’s not like they don’t _know_ ; Mikey is in Frank’s band, after all, they’re practically brothers from how Mikey described it. There’s no way he didn’t tell him. But no one brings it up, and Pete supposes he should just be happy that it’s not causing waves with Frank before he even gets a chance to know him.

Emmy’s school starts back up again, and Pete starts lingering at the counter again after he gets him on the bus, asking for refills and another donut. One day, as Patrick pours the coffee, Pete checks his phone. There’s a text from Mikey, and Pete says flippantly, “Oh, hey, Mikey says hi.” He doesn’t, but it seems like the polite thing to do.

Patrick clenches his jaw, his eyes not moving from the chipped brown mug he’s filling. “Oh. Um. Hi. Are you—”

Before he can say more, the diner phone rings, and he has to step away to take an order. Frank sweeps into the dining room from upstairs the next moment, all slouchy clothes and a rat’s nest of hair, stumbling around the corner groggily and heading straight for the coffee machine, grabbing Patrick’s arm on the way to pull him in and smack a kiss to his temple. Patrick grimaces around a smile and fills Frank a cup after he hangs up the phone, shoving it lovingly into his hands. Pete focuses on texting Mikey back.

“Hey, Frank, Mikey says hi,” he says absently.

“Mikey Way!” Frank squawks, taking a large slurp of coffee as he hops up onto the back counter. “He told me that was still going on.” Pete knew it. “Good for you, man. You guys are—”

“Completely nuts?” Pete guesses. Patrick snorts a sarcastic laugh but says nothing, swatting at Frank’s legs as he passes toward the register, muttering at him to get off his counter. Frank ignores him.

“Nah, I was gonna say lucky, or maybe too fucking cute. I get it, you know? I totally believe in all that love-at-first-sight crap.” Over the top of his coffee mug, Frank slants a significant glance toward Patrick, ringing up the takeout order obliviously. Then he sips his coffee and smiles at Pete, who can’t help but smile back.

Turns out, Frank is a nice guy.

*

Patrick wakes up before the sun with a pair of arms wrapped tight around him. It’s a strange thing to get used to after six months of sleeping alone. Two weeks in, and he still has a few seconds of confusion every day when he opens his eyes. He gently pries himself away from the stronghold, cracking his back and heading into the bathroom. He fumbles on his glasses, brushes his teeth, flattens his hair down from where it’s sticking up in the back.

There’s a hickey peeking up from under the edge of his loose shirt collar, just under the sharp jut of his clavicle. It draws his attention to the prominence of his bone structure, all of a sudden, the distinct line of his jaw that used to be soft. His hair is growing a little long again, his bangs hanging down low in his eyes. He can still see traces of the Patrick he used to be, has always _been_ , and he suddenly, vehemently wants to erase that.

As he stands scrutinizing himself, Frank trudges in and presses the length of his body sleepily against Patrick’s back. He’s only a couple inches taller, but he hooks his chin over Patrick’s shoulder and slumps dramatically, like he has to bend so far to bring their faces together. Their eyes meet in the mirror.

“I need a haircut,” Patrick says.

Frank hums neutrally. “You mean you don’t want a mane as beautiful as mine?” Frank’s hair is snarled and knotted and greasy as all hell. He’s been hanging around Gerard for so long, he’s turned into him. In fact, when Patrick saw him on New Year’s, Gerard looked surprisingly good, hair long but neatly trimmed, face soft and clean. It’s like they traded places during the last tour or something. There’s a flash in his brain of a legend Ray told him once, about Frank and an ill-kempt head of dreadlocks. He really hopes he’s not planning on resurrecting that look.

Patrick grimaces at the tobacco-y musk coming from Frank’s head. “Correction: we _both_ need a haircut.”

Against his shoulder, Patrick feels the rumble of Frank’s laughter, harsh as gravel. “Yeah, yeah, I’m gonna shave it all off.”

“That sounds like a great idea. Maybe also a shower,” Patrick agrees, smiling at the teasing, warning way Frank digs his teeth into the thin skin at his neck. He lifts a thoughtful hand and messes with his bangs a little. “Maybe I’ll bleach mine.”

Frank’s arms come up around Patrick’s waist, his mouth pressing wet against the nape of Patrick’s neck as he nuzzles into his hair. “That’d be hot, babe.” His hips hitch forward, so that Patrick can feel the hard line of him against his lower back. “C’mon, if you wanna shower so bad, at least let me blow you at the same time.”

The sex has never been their problem.

As Frank shoves their clothes off and drags Patrick into the tub, Patrick thinks of all the things that _are_ , things that they should probably talk about. It’s easy in the abstract; all he has to do is sit Frank down and say, “Hey, we need to figure our shit out,” and they will. Frank responds well to directness. It’s one of his best qualities. It’s just, every time Patrick touches him or looks too long at his pretty face, the problems don’t seem that bad.

So what if he’s gone more months out of the year than he’s home? It’s his job. So what if he tends to lock himself up in the studio he rents next door with his guitar when he’s feeling low rather than talk to Patrick about it? It’s how he processes things. So what if he still has an apartment in Belleville? It’s easier that way when he visits his family. So what if he talks about New Jersey like a long lost lover, and Mighty Falls like a pit of quicksand that he has no hope of escaping? It’s not important because Patrick is here. Patrick will always be here.

“God, I missed your dick,” Frank murmurs, before licking around him _just_ _right_.

Patrick shivers and moans and stops thinking for a while.

That night, Frank buzzes all his hair off over the trash can and then bleaches Patrick’s over the sink.

The next day at work, he forgoes a hat, ignoring the nervous thump of his heart with nowhere to hide. It looks good, judging by the way Gabe wolf whistles at him and Pete pretends not to stare. Emmy says he looks like Elsa from Frozen, and fails to qualify it by adding, “…if she were a boy.” William doesn’t even try to tell him he’s in violation of some ancient town ordinance, just smiles politely and whispers furiously about it to Vicky. When Frank comes down for coffee, Patrick flushes in anticipation of a big possessive display, loud wet kisses and a louder declaration that he’ll kick Gabe’s ass if he tries anything.

But he seems on edge, his eyes shadowed and out of focus, blatant without a wall of hair to cover it up. Patrick’s stomach sinks. This is when he disappears next door or announces that he booked a flight to Jersey to visit his parents for a few days. Frank is a restless, wandering spirit. Nothing has ever kept him in one place for too long, not even Patrick, and when he starts to feel the itch, it’s impossible to soothe. At this point, Patrick knows the signs too well.

Instead of breaking any kind of bad news, though, he starts silently bussing one of the tables. Patrick watches him for a few minutes, still too pale and too thin but starting to fill out again, to look more like himself, and he wonders if they actually need to talk at all. Maybe this time, it’s different. Maybe Frank isn’t so restless, so desperate to get away. Maybe all Patrick’s hard work was worth it because this time, Frank wants to stay.

When he looks up and catches Patrick staring, his hazel eyes clear a little, and he slants a fragile smile at him.

*

“I think the band is taking a break.”

They’re both on their backs in their bed, angled so that Frank can rest his head against Patrick’s shoulder. Patrick has his hand scratching Frank’s scalp, enjoying the fuzzy velvet feeling of his buzzed head. He squirms every now and then when Patrick finds a particularly sensitive spot. When Frank speaks, it surprises Patrick, but he stays quiet for a few minutes, giving time for the words to really sink in.

When he finally responds, he matches Frank’s quiet tone, not wanting to disrupt the delicate atmosphere and make the other man clam up again. “What happened?”

“Recording went… bad,” Frank answers slowly, carefully. “We ended up scrapping the whole thing. Gee suggested taking a couple months to regroup, like, maybe we’d just been at it for too long. Then Toro told us that Christa’s pregnant, due in the fall. He said he wouldn’t mind taking time for that, to really be there for her and for the baby when it comes.” Frank’s shoulder brushes Patrick’s chest as he shrugs. “Can’t say no to that, right? So, we decided on a year.”

“A year?”

“At least. We haven’t announced it yet. We might not, officially. Lots of bands take big breaks between albums, right?” He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself. “We’re gonna come back to it. It’s a hiatus, if anything, not a—” His voice cuts off in a sharp choke.

“Hey.” Patrick rolls onto his side, supporting Frank’s head as he slid his other arm around his waist, bringing their faces close together. Up close, Patrick can see the fear and the pain rampant in Frank’s eyes. “A _hiatus_ can be good. If recording wasn’t working, maybe Gerard is right. Maybe you guys need some time away.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” Frank looks down, hiding his thoughts with half-lidded eyes. “Anyway, I only brought it up so that you know… I’m sticking around for a while.”

“Oh.” Patrick wants that to be true. He wants Frank to look him in the eye and say it. The hand still cradling the back of Frank’s head comes down to frame his face, thumb gliding along the sharp edge of his jaw as Patrick lifts his chin a fraction, coaxing his skittish gaze to meet his own, eager for affirmation. “Really? I mean… _really_ , Frankie?”

It’s an endless pause before Frank reaches out and pulls Patrick’s weight solidly onto him, tucking his face up against his throat and letting out a shivery breath. “Yes, Patrick, really. I’m sorry. I feel like I messed us up. It’s gonna be different, I swear. I always miss you so much, and I just… I wanna show you that I _want_ to be here with you. I love you.”

Patrick is struck by the realization that this is the first time either of them has said those words in… god, he can’t even remember how long. The sound of it melts away the last shred of doubt still loitering in Patrick’s thoughts, and he breathes out all of the tension and worry into the patch of skin behind Frank’s right ear. He holds on tight, and says, “It’s okay. We’re okay. I love you, too.”

*

Valentine’s Day is fast approaching.

It’s been years since Pete has had anyone to celebrate with. The holiday only exists on his radar anymore because of the permanent reminder in his phone (that Andy set up) to buy some cards at CVS for Emmy’s class exchange. Now he has to add in a reminder to send Mikey some flowers, or a teddy bear with a box of chocolates, or maybe just a plane ticket to come see him.

Despite his promise to visit again soon, Mikey hasn’t been able to actually make it happen. He’s still active in the local music scene in Jersey, and now that he’s got some amount of fame, he’s got clout in the rock clubs in New York City, too. Every weekend is a DJ set or another friend’s band coming through town or a guest bartending spot at some themed dance party. Pete distracts himself from it by throwing all of his own time and energy into the inn.

The framework of the building has been completed. Jon was able to get the original blueprints from the town, and assured Pete and Andy that it would not be difficult to replicate, and he’s even going to improve upon some areas that they would have had to fix on the original structure anyway. Everyone is hopeful that they can accelerate their timeline by at least three months. Pete’s father stops checking in with Andy every other day, and Pete starts to feel like he can breathe again.

The only thing left that’s stressing him out is telling Emmy about his new boyfriend.

Pete knows he has to do it before too much longer, because eventually Mikey _will_ find a time to come visit, and he can’t just show up on the doorstep with no explanation. So, on an otherwise unassuming Tuesday night at the beginning of February, Pete orders in from Emmy’s favorite local place – oddly enough, an Indian spot that makes a truly righteous saag paneer, though god knows where the kid picked that one up from – and turns on his favorite of the Back to the Future movies – inexplicably, the third one, seriously, whose kid is this? Emmy wanders down from his room, face brightening as he takes in the spread, and not acting suspicious at all.

When the movie is nearly over, Doc Brown hanging off the side of a steam train with Mary Steenburgen, Pete turns down the volume and takes a deep breath. Whatever, it’s as good a time as any, this sequence takes way too long and is totally unrealistic. Emmy blinks at him, confused but not alarmed.

Pete hems and haws, and then finally leads with, “Em, you know about dating, right?”

Emmy’s confused look deepens. “Dating?”

“Yeah, you know, like when you really like someone, and you want to take them out to dinner or to a movie, and hold their hand and stuff?”

At that, Emmy rolls his eyes so hard it’s audible. “Yeah, Dad, I know what _dating_ is. I’m almost _eleven_. I know how to use the internet, _and_ I know when you date someone, you don’t just _hold hands_.”

“Wow, okay, you can stop talking,” Pete says quickly. “Geez, when did you—? Whatever, never mind, don’t tell me. What I’m trying to say is…”

“You’re dating someone.” Emmy says it like a fact, like something he already _knew_ , what the hell? “You’re always texting someone, and when it’s Andy you usually ignore it. _And_ you get this really dumb smile on your face. It’s pretty obvious, Dad, it happens on the CW _all_ the time.”

Pete is a little taken aback, but also relieved. “Does it bother you? It’s okay if it does, you can tell me. I _want_ you to tell me.”

Emmy takes a moment, grabbing another samosa and taking a bite, chewing thoughtfully. Finally, he swallows and nods, like he’s decided something. “It doesn’t. I know you’re not trying to replace Mom, and I don’t want you to be lonely.”

The tears that prick at the back of Pete’s eyes are unexpected, but he doesn’t hold them back. Instead, he leans across the couch to pull his son close, press a kiss to the top of his head and hide his tears in the tufts of hair there. “Hey, now, I’m never lonely. I’ve got you.” Emmy squirms but laughs a little. “His name is Mikey. You’ll meet him soon, and if you don’t like him, I swear, just say the word. He already knows you come first, obviously, we’re a package deal forever. But um… I mean, if you could _try_ to like him, I’d appreciate it.”

“ _Him?”_ Emmy repeats. Pete braces himself, but Emmy’s voice isn’t anything except petulant when he goes on, “Oh no, they’re gonna start taking pictures of us in the street again, aren’t they?”

Pete can’t help but laugh, hugging his son even closer. His incredible son, who loves Indian food and bad movie three-quels, who can read Pete better than any other person on the entire planet, who doesn’t seem fazed by his dad having a boyfriend as long as no one takes _his_ picture. After his shoulders stop shaking and the giggles have dissipated, Pete promises him, “No way, kid. Those paps gave up on me a long time ago, and anyway, that kind of stuff is old news, isn’t it? You know how to use the internet, after all. Doesn’t dating a guy make me, like, a _cool dad?”_

Emmy sighs long-sufferingly. “Whatever, Dad, I don’t _care_.”

Pete grins into his hair, but before he can fully relax, he just has to make _extra_ sure. “So, we’re okay, Emmett?”

Emmy sinks closer against his shoulder. “Yeah, Peter.” He bites into the samosa. He’s the only person that can call him that and get away with it. On the TV screen, a train engine is flying through the air with neon electricity sparking all around it, coming directly at them. Emmy huffs. “Can you rewind it? We missed the whole end part.”

*

On the next unassuming Tuesday, Pete’s phone rings and the caller I.D. says _Patrick._

His heart beats a little faster on instinct, and he hesitates a moment before he accepts the call and lifts his phone to his ear. “Uh, hello?”

“Hey, Pete? It’s Frank.”

“Oh. Hey, Frank.”

“Sorry to surprise you, but I knew Patrick had your number in his phone, and I wanted to see if you would meet me for coffee.”

Pete’s mind is blank, totally thrown off, so he accepts without question and asks when and where. Apparently, Frank wants to meet right away. He gives him the name of a coffee shop in Springfield, and they agree to meet that afternoon. Pete isn’t needed at the inn for anything urgent, and his curiosity is now well past piqued.

It takes forty-three minutes to drive to the shop at a steady thirty-five an hour, and when Pete goes in, he sees Frank already waiting there, slouched artfully in a rickety wooden chair, tattooed fingers wrapped around a massive coffee mug and a pair of dark aviators obscuring his eyes. Pete stares at the back of his head while he waits for the barista to pull his red eye. His black hair has already grown out about an inch from the harsh buzz cut of a few weeks ago. His shoulders look tense under his well-worn leather jacket.

They exchange the usual pleasantries when Pete joins him at the small, round table. There are only a couple of other people in the shop, and their voices echo too loud around them. Pete tries not to feel self-conscious.

“You’re probably wondering why I asked you here,” Frank says eventually.

Pete shrugs and nods around a sip of his drink.

Fortifying himself with a sip of his own, Frank squares his shoulders. “I can tell that you and Patrick have become good friends. He’s different towards you. More open. I’ve never seen him act like that toward anyone, not even me, not even _Travie_ , and I’m pretty sure that guy’s his emergency contact, like, he’s _family_. But there’s something about you, and so, I don’t know, I guess I just thought I’d ask—”

With each word, Pete’s stomach has sunk lower and lower in his gut. “Frank, look, it’s nothing—”

“—if maybe you could help me.”

Oh.

Wait, what?

“Help you?”

“Yeah.” Frank sips his coffee. “Has Patrick told you how we got together?”

 _He didn’t tell me about you at all_ , Pete doesn’t say. Instead, he silently shakes his head.

“We played the Metro and our drummer fucked off on us, and the last thing we ever wanted to do back then was cancel a gig. Patrick saved our asses and I dunno… love at first sight, right? You know.” Frank smiles to himself. “He’s a fucking talented guy. Anyway, I called from the road when I could find a pay phone, and then after tour ended, I flew back to Chicago for a couple weeks. It was great. We really clicked. He came to Jersey for his spring break, and then I got the label to plan our next tour so I could be in Chicago when he graduated.” Frank pauses, taking a long, slow mouthful from his mug. His face has turned somber, mouth twisting downward at the corner. “His dad died ten days later. He was supposed to come meet us in L.A. I was gonna bring him out, let him tech a little. Instead, I got a fill-in and flew back here. I’ve never seen someone— _anyone_ —the way Patrick was. So fucking… _bereaved_ but not showing it, just taking care of the arrangements and the legal shit and moving out here without a question. I knew, right then.”

“Knew what?”

“That I would fucking marry him, if he’d let me,” Frank replies, like it’s obvious.

Pete’s breath comes up short. “Oh.” He gulps his coffee to cover it up. “So… what, you want me to help plan a proposal?” His stomach twinges oddly. Maybe he’s overdone it on the caffeine again.

“Nah,” Frank says, and Pete breathes an internal sigh of relief. “I’m leaving that one up to him. Although, he probably thinks I wouldn’t want him to.”

“Do you?”

Frank shrugs. “Of course. But he doesn’t trust me not to take off again, and I can’t blame him. I’ve done that a lot.”

“You were in the band when he met you,” Pete reasons. “He knew touring was part of the package, and he bought in anyway.”

“It’s not just tour. I go home to Jersey a lot. My family and I are close, but also, small-town life just _gets_ to me sometimes. It feels so insular. I invited him at first, but Patrick always chose to stay here because of the diner, so I stopped. We haven’t spent many holidays together, or birthdays, or… I think he always worried that I didn’t take us seriously, that each time I left, I wouldn’t come back.” Frank trails off with a grimace, looking away. “That’s on me, I guess. But I want to make it right. I want this to work.”

“Why?” Frank’s eyes flash over to him, surprised. Pete goes on, “Wouldn’t it be easier to walk away?”

“It’s not about easy,” Frank says sharply. “It’s about… fucking _love_ , man. Patrick’s love is like… like a rock, you know? It’s grounding. It’s solid. How do I walk away from that?”

Pete can’t answer that, so he side-steps. “Okay, so prove it to him. Show him you’re not going anywhere.”

“I will.”

“Good.” Pete takes a reprieve in the warmth of his coffee mug. Across from him, Frank looks thoughtful, his gaze far away. “So, where’s the part where you need my help?”

Frank checks back in, the thunderclouds on his face clearing away. “Right. Like I said, you guys are close. He respects your opinion.” Pete holds back a laugh because _what?_ All Patrick does is criticize Pete’s opinion. But he lets Frank continue. “If you could just, I don’t know, put in the good word for me? I need someone on my side, and the rest of the town is already skeptical. Plus, you’re _almost_ like my band-brother-in-law now.” Frank grins impishly, imploringly.

Pete sighs. “Well, when you put it _that_ way…” He smiles. “You got me on your side, dude.”

“Right on! Thank you, Pete.”

*

At first, Pete isn’t sure how to approach the subject. While he sees Patrick every day, they don’t ever spend any time alone together, so there are very few opportunities to get him into a serious conversation about his relationship. For one thing, Gabe and William always seem to be listening in from the other end of the counter. For another, he usually has Emmy with him.

Valentine’s Day is only a few days away, and an idea comes to Pete one morning, staring at the horrendously pilled navy cardigan Patrick is wearing.

“Dude, do you own any nice clothes?”

Patrick looks up from where he’s wiping down the ketchup bottles, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Who, me?”

“Yeah, you!” Pete laughs.

“Uh, yeah, you know I have a suit, you’ve _seen_ me in it.”

“ _A_ suit? Do you wear that same suit every time you need to dress up?” The answering silence is all Pete needs to know. He sighs dramatically, leaning forward over the counter. “You’ve got to be kidding me! I knew it! What are you planning to wear on Saturday, then?”

Patrick just continues to look lost. “Saturday?”

“Dude, you are totally hopeless,” Pete chides. “Saturday is _Valentine’s_.”

“Oh.” Patrick’s confused expression warps into something bordering on panicked. “Shit. Valentine’s Day? Already?”

“ _Yes_ , so call up your fancy date spot and offer them a fucking _bribe_ for a reservation.” Patrick nods sheepishly, and Pete goes on, “And you’ll need a new suit.”

“What?” Patrick rolls his eyes. “I’m not buying a new suit just for some stupid holiday.”

Pete gasps in mock horror, clutching his chest. “Patrick, you wound me. Valentine’s Day is _not_ just some stupid holiday. It’s a day to let someone know how much they mean to you by doing something nice and romantic for them, even if it’s just a gesture. I _guarantee_ Frank has seen you in that suit before, am I right or am I wrong?” Patrick folds his arms and remains silent. “I’m _right!_ If you buy a brand new one, he’ll know that you went out and did something _special_ while thinking about him. See? A gesture.”

To his complete surprise, Patrick’s face softens, eyes flitting back and forth as he ponders this idea. Finally, he concedes, “Okay. Maybe you have a point.” Then he screws up his mouth again. “But I don’t know if Frank even cares about this shit. He’s literally never been in town for Valentine’s Day before. We’ve never made a big deal out of it.”

“Dude, that’s so sad,” Pete says genuinely. “You definitely have to do something nice, then. Frank seems like a good guy. He seems like he…” Pete takes a deep breath. “He seems like he loves you a lot.”

Patrick looks down at his shoes, cheeks tinged the softest pink. “Yeah, well…”

“Look, I know it’s none of my business,” Pete continues, “but Frank is a good guy. He doesn’t seem like he’s going anywhere.”

“Yeah,” Patrick nods, still looking at the floor. “That’s what he _says_ , but…”

“What? Has nothing changed?”

“No.” At that, Patrick lifts his head again, meeting Pete’s eyes straight-on. “Things have changed.”

“Okay, then. Show him you’re taking what he says seriously. Give him a chance to prove himself.” Pete grins wide when Patrick’s lips quirk into a fraction of a smile. “And let me go shopping for you! I may suck at everything else, but I swear I’ve got a killer eye.”

It takes a bit of convincing, but Patrick finally hands over his credit card, insisting on his budget. “Don’t worry about a gift, though,” he says before Pete scurries out the door. “I’ve got that covered.”

Which is how Pete finds himself, Valentine’s Day morning, barreling through the door of Patrick’s apartment, arms laden with grey zippered bags containing a selection of the best suits he could find at the outlet mall in Tuscola. Patrick boggles at him as he trudges over and splays them out across the couch, already reaching for the VanHeusen hanger to his left.

“Whoa, jesus, how much did this cost? I _told_ you no more than—” Patrick inches closer to him and the pile of suits, eyeing the fabric that reveals itself as the zipper opens. “Wait, is that _purple?”_

“Trust me, dude,” Pete says flippantly. “This is going to look spectacular on you. And before you have a heart attack, everything was nine million percent off and returnable.”

That does seem to calm Patrick down some, and Pete settles in to unzipping all of the bags, showing off suits in every basic color and then some that aren’t, like the eggplant purple number with matching bowtie. Unsurprisingly, Patrick only agrees to try on the more conventional colors and styles, ignoring the loud blue and red and purple suits. He looks immaculate in each one, but Pete catches how his eyes keep skittering back to the VanHeusen.

Pete has to check himself every time Patrick comes out of the bathroom in a different suit. There’s something about him, all done up in clean lines, that gets him sweating along the edge of his shirt collar. Maybe Patrick just has the heat turned up in here, or something.

“I think you should try on the purple one,” Pete says decidedly, watching Patrick inspect himself in the mirror, the ink black Ralph Lauren he’s currently wearing good but not _quite_ right.

Patrick lifts an eyebrow at him. “You just want to laugh at me.”

“No.” If it comes out a little breathier than Pete intended, well, he’s not copping to anything. “I really want to see it.”

For a moment, Patrick just stares at him with an unreadable gaze. Pete gathers up the purple suit and a black button-down, holding it out and then shooing the other man toward the bathroom when he starts to protest the color of the shirt. Grumbling, Patrick disappears again, and Pete takes the five minutes of solace to gather his thoughts. He’s over this. It wasn’t anything, Patrick told him that straight to his face, and Pete has Mikey, and Patrick has Frank.

The bathroom door opens, and Pete’s train of thought stumbles to a halt.

Patrick steps lightly over to the full-length mirror, pointedly not meeting Pete’s eyes. His skin is positively glowing against the dark tones of his clothes, hands long and elegant as they finish tying up the bow tie, flattening down his platinum hair. Pete hasn’t entirely gotten used to that part of Patrick’s new look, but seeing it like this, he thinks he’s officially a fan.

Before he realizes it, he’s walked over to stand behind Patrick, watching in the mirror as he brings his hands up to smooth across Patrick’s shoulders, down the length of his arms when he drops them to his sides. Pete moves his hands along the seam of the jacket on either side, under the guise of making sure everything is fitting correctly. Patrick doesn’t object, just watches his hands in the mirror, breathing slow and steady. The air in the apartment feels like static, raising the hairs on the back of his neck.

“Here, try this closed.” Pete doesn’t think, just wraps his arms around Patrick’s waist and buttons up the jacket. Then leaves his hands there. The entire length of Patrick’s body is tense along Pete’s front. Pete looks at the mirror over his shoulder, gives him a good long inspection. Patrick still doesn’t meet his eyes. “Hold on.”

After retrieving some hair gel from the bathroom, Pete situates himself in front of Patrick. Now he gets eye contact, a clear gilded stare, as he coats his hands in gel and starts mussing with the soft blond fringe always hanging in Patrick’s face. Pete coaxes it up in a tidy flourish, then off to the side to keep it away from his endless eyes. Nothing should ever obstruct such a glorious view, Pete decides.

“There. That looks… perfect.” Tilting back a little, he takes in the final product, the vision that is Patrick in a well-fitting suit, with his hair done and his face wide open. Admittedly, he gets a little lost, studying his face, an opportunity rarely afforded to anyone. He studies his eyes, for the exact pattern of gold interrupting hues of blue only found on the clearest summer day, for the gentle curl of pale eyelashes; his skin, for the satin smoothness of his cheek, dusted with rosy warmth; his mouth, for the way his lips part so delicately, for the slight shine of wetness where he mindlessly flicks his tongue. Pete doesn’t realize how close they’re standing until his knuckles press against the cold metal of a belt buckle. “Wow. I mean… _Trick_.” Pete expects a scolding for the nickname, but instead Patrick’s lashes flutter, his breath hitches.

“Pete.” The way Patrick says it, his name sounds like a melody. Pete’s fingers find the bottom of the jacket’s lapel, clinging tight and pulling him just that fraction closer—

The apartment door opens.

*

Patrick takes a giant step back from Pete, looking over to see Frank bounding in, drowning in a cargo jacket, carrying a large suitcase. In the split second before he turns to take in the scene before him, Frank is excited, face split open with a grin, open and eager to say something. But Patrick doesn’t miss the way his enthusiasm slips, just a little, when he actually looks at them. He ignores the ache in the pit of his stomach.

Whatever, it’s nothing.

Then, from behind Frank comes waltzing in –

“Mikey!” Pete cries, flinging himself across the room instantly to crash into the man barely halfway through the door. Patrick looks away as the two of them hug and kiss and laugh breathlessly. He looks at Frank, who is looking right back, eyes unyielding.

“I was gonna come knock on your door and surprise you,” Mikey is saying, “but you’re already here!”

“Yeah, Pete, what are you doing here?” Frank asks, looking away from Patrick.

“I was helping Patrick pick out a suit for tonight.” Pete swings an arm wide like Vanna White, presenting Patrick to them in all his glory, the other staying firmly around Mikey’s neck. The smile Pete flashes is too bright, too campy. “I’d say I did a damn good job, wouldn’t you?”

Mikey holds Pete close with hands against his hips. “Yeah, Frankie, your boy looks good.”

Patrick blushes and excuses himself to the bathroom, changing back into his grease-stained sweater and loose-fitting jeans. One of his beanies is hanging out of the laundry hamper, and he almost shoves it over his styled hair, but a glance in the mirror keeps him from it. Something in his chest twinges when he thinks about destroying Pete’s work.

Out in the main room, the others have left. Frank is hanging his coat up in the closet, turning to look at Patrick over his shoulder as he comes out. His gaze travels over him slowly. “The suit looked good,” he says quietly.

“I just… Pete offered to help, and…” Patrick stumbles over the words.

Frank takes pity on him. “That was nice of him.” It takes a halting moment, but then he cracks a smile. “Should I expect any other surprises today, or is it just your GQ fashion show?”

Despite the unease in his gut, Patrick laughs. He crosses to the kitchen to fill up a kettle for tea, to do something with his hands. “Maybe some surprises,” he teases finally. “At least plan on dinner.”

When he looks over his shoulder, Frank is beaming. “Dinner, it is.”

*

As it turns out, Patrick is much too late to book a reservation at any of the respectable places in a reasonable driving distance, especially the ones that offer decent vegetarian options. Luckily for him, he remembers that he now has an in with a great vegan chef. Andy is more than happy to provide him with a few recipes, things that are simple but delicious, under the condition that Patrick doesn’t share them with _anyone_.

“If I see anything about mushroom risotto on Vaughn’s menu, I will slap you with a lawsuit so fast your head will spin,” Andy threatens, and yet somehow manages to still sound perfectly friendly.

Frank comes to dinner dressed to the nines, in a classic black and white tux, but forgoing the tie, leaving the pristine white shirt unbuttoned at the top. Patrick isn’t sure where he even scrounged up such an outfit, but he’s not about to question it. Frank looks stunning, and despite everyone’s earlier reactions, Patrick feels a little silly next to him in the flashy violet number as they sit down to eat.

The apartment is dimly lit, just a smattering of candles on available surfaces: the countertop, on the nightstand, in the center of the spread on their rickety dining room table. The record player spins a sweet soundtrack of jazz standards, the seitan steaks and the trademarked risotto filling the air with a tantalizing fragrance of garlic and thyme. Frank takes it all in with his lips quirked neutrally, watching Patrick carefully over the candlelight. Patrick pours them wine, serves them dinner, tucks in to eat and it all feels very formal, very rigid. He sticks out a foot under the table and catches it around one of Frank’s ankles. It eases the tension in his shoulders some, but something still feels off.

With the first bite of his steak, Frank forgets to hold himself so tight and slumps toward the table with a groan that makes Patrick blush. “Holy shit, dude. I knew you could cook but… god _damn_.” He shovels another bite into his mouth.

“I got the recipe from Andy, actually,” Patrick admits. “He told me to consider it a sneak preview, and if we ever want to eat his food again, we have to pay for it.”

Frank laughs, the last of the tension easing out of his body. “Looks like that inn is gonna be stiff competition.”

Patrick shrugs. “I’m not too worried.”

They finish their food in companionable silence, lingering around the table drinking their wine as the needle on the record player inches closer to the center. When it ends, Patrick gets up and changes it to The Ronettes. Frank moves to the couch and Patrick joins him there. They sip their wine quietly as they sit close together, shoulders overlapping, thighs pressed tight together.

After a couple of songs, Patrick sets his glass down. “I got you something.”

“Oh yeah?” Frank sounds curious.

“Yeah, um…” Patrick fumbles into the inside pocket of his suit jacket, producing a stack of folded documents. Frank sets his own glass down, reaching out to take the papers from him, unfolding them delicately like he thinks they might crumble in his hands. As his eyes skim over the words, his eyebrows knit together. When he looks up again, the flame from the candle over Patrick’s shoulder reflects brilliantly in his eyes.

“This is…”

“The deed to the building next door,” Patrick confirms. “I— I thought maybe you could expand your studio.”

Frank’s mouth hangs open, his attention torn between the pages in front of him and the hopeful grin slowly spreading across Patrick’s face. After a minute, a delighted chuckle escapes from his throat, and he scrambles into his jacket pocket as the laughter grows. Before Patrick can ask, Frank shoves his phone at him, the screen lit up with a Zillow listing. Patrick is confused, blinking rapidly to bring the words on the screen into focus. The listing is for an apartment in Belleville. His heart clenches in his chest.

“I’m selling the apartment,” Frank tells him, his voice low and cautious as his laughter peters out. His hands grasp tightly to the one of Patrick’s not holding the cell phone. “I want you to know I’m serious.” He lifts up the deed in his other hand. “I’m guessing _this_ … is for the same reason?”

Patrick can’t help but smile, dropping Frank’s phone to the cushion beside him to run his hand through the short hairs at his temple, tracing the delicate skin behind his ear. Frank shivers. “I want you to have something here, something that’s just yours.”

Placing the deed safely on the coffee table, between their abandoned wine glasses, Frank leans all the way into Patrick’s space, stopping short to flash him that patented Iero smile, smooth and dark and confident. “I appreciate the gesture but… fact is, I already do.”

It’s Patrick who closes the distance between them, who catches Frank’s mouth securely with his own, biting a possessive kiss to the jut of his lower lip. They curl together, jackets quickly pushed away, his shirt buttons coming undone as Frank crawls on top of him, pressing their hips flush together through expensive fabric. It reminds Patrick suddenly of the back of a putrid fifteen-passenger van, parked on a sketchy side street in downtown Chicago. They were younger then, with shittier clothes and less knowledge of each other’s mouths, although with arguably better hair. Patrick grins around Frank’s questing tongue at the thought, pulling away to hide his laughter in the safety of Frank’s throat.

His hands grab at Frank’s ass just like they did that night, pulling him down to feel the hard length of Patrick against him, already so wound up just from this. Frank moans, hands on either side of his face, pulling him back up and holding him steady as he does a thorough job of mapping the inside of Patrick’s mouth. He grunts when Patrick gets to his feet, arms strong beneath Frank’s thighs, shuffling steady across the apartment and dropping them to the mattress.

There’s no pause to catch their breath, just Frank shedding his shirt and Patrick reaching up to fumble off his bowtie one-handed, the other preoccupied with twisting around Frank’s nipple, a satisfied smirk on his sweaty face as the man beneath him arches and whines for him.

They manage to shed the rest of their clothes without separating their mouths, the skin around Patrick’s starting to rub raw from the stubble littering Frank’s chin. He doesn’t care. The fire under his skin is telling him that if he stops kissing Frank, stops taking long, luxurious sips of him directly from the source, he’ll die. His hands move from Frank’s chest to his hips, sliding smoothly over the newer lines of ink that he’s still learning and the ones that he’s known for years, has long memorized. Frank shudders, arms wrapping around Patrick’s neck, holding him close as their cocks line up, slipping against each other with the help of the precome leaking from them both.

Frank ruts against him, ripping his mouth away to bite a harsh line down the side of his neck. “Fuck me,” he groans, the sound absorbed into Patrick’s skin. It only stokes the flame in him, sets the blood in his veins alight. “Patrick, _please_ , I need to feel you.”

His hand flies to the nightstand, ripping open the drawer and scrambling around inside. After a moment he growls his frustration, reluctantly sitting up, a chill sweeping through him at the loss of contact. Frank protests this also, whining high in his throat, reaching for him. Patrick soothes him with a hand across his stomach, coming down to rest loosely around them both. Now able to see what he’s doing, Patrick quickly obtains the right supplies and returns to trail wet kisses down Frank’s torso, biting into places that have filled out again in the last month or so, the places he knows will drive Frank wild as he coats his fingers slick with lube.

His reward is the broken noise that scrapes out of Frank’s throat when Patrick licks a broad stripe up his cock and presses a firm middle finger to his hole, no teasing, just a steady press in until Frank is tight around the digit, squirming in place to find the best angle. Patrick lets him work it out, holding his mouth open for Frank to thrust into and his finger rigid for Frank to fuck back onto. He’s laid out on his stomach in between Frank’s splayed legs, and he takes a moment to appreciate how easily he can rut against the covers in this position.

“Another,” Frank breathes a second later. “Another, c’mon, I want it.”

Patrick pulls off of his dick to bite into the meat of his thigh as he presses his index finger in carefully alongside the other, working with the way Frank’s body opens up to him. He can’t help his own hungry groan as he sits back an inch to watch his fingers disappear into Frank as the other man rolls his hips. Patrick salivates, licking over his balls to the sweat-sticky skin of his perineum, wet tongue flickering _just so_ against the base of his fingers. The way Frank’s body twists in response, the way his vocal cords fight against the broken cry that escapes him, is almost enough to send Patrick over the edge.

He sits up suddenly, fingers pulled free as he grabs Frank’s wrists. Their fingers tangle together above Frank’s head, where Patrick holds him in place, their arms pressed tight from palm to elbow. He lets go only briefly to make sure he’s lined up, and then he hangs on for dear life, rolling his forehead against Frank’s in a nuzzle and kissing him sweetly as he pushes forward and slowly, ever so slowly, sinks into Frank’s body.

The man beneath him rumbles with ecstasy, his head flung back on the pillow as his hips arch upwards, desperate and eager for the heady, hot pressure of Patrick’s cock opening him up. Patrick pants against Frank’s throat, the wet of his mouth mixing with the salt-slick sweat gathered on his skin, in the dip of his collarbone. Once he’s in completely, balls pressed tight to the decadent curve of Frank’s ass, they pause.

Frank gasps in harsh breaths as Patrick releases his hands, moving carefully to lift up just a little, bracing his hands on the comforter on either side of Frank’s chest. The sight of him laid out beneath him – arms cut with delicate muscle and decorated with artistic splashes of color and black ink still sprawled over his head, equally adorned torso stretched taut, strong legs splayed wide and bent back to let him press close – knocks the air loose from Patrick’s lungs. Without even meaning to, he rolls his hips, compelled by the sparkle of wetness in Frank’s eyes when he blinks them open. Patrick isn’t even sure when he closed them.

“Patrick,” Frank sighs, and the heat of it skitters through his veins. “ _Patrick_.”

Patrick runs a hand up to Frank’s crossed wrists, urging him to reach higher and grab onto one of the rungs of the headboard. “Hold on, baby,” he murmurs, leaving Frank’s hands there and moving his own down to cradle the back of Frank’s head, pressing close to capture his mouth again. Frank moans around his tongue, laps his against the roof of his mouth, and then whines as Patrick starts to rock his hips back and forth.

“Yes,” he gasps on the first thrust, and then, “Yeah,” on the second, and then it isn’t words anymore, just strings of helpless vowels as Patrick finds a steady rhythm. The candles burn down as Patrick takes him apart, each pound of his hips driving them both closer to the edge. He hooks his arms around the back of Frank’s knees, sitting up straight and pushing his legs wider, nearly too far. Frank doesn’t complain, just cries out in a gorgeous rasp as the angle shifts and Patrick’s thick cock strikes hard and true against his prostate. His legs scrabble uselessly in Patrick’s arms, fighting against the sensation even as the rest of his body pushes back, begging without words for more.

Patrick keeps his rhythm, dripping sweat but too preoccupied with chasing the urgency running through each limb, making his head dizzy as he pounds into Frank. He drops one of his legs to get a hand around his cock, the sight of it swollen red and throbbing against his stomach enough to make Patrick’s mouth water. Before he can even get there, Frank has wrapped his now free leg around Patrick’s waist, pulling him deep and holding him there, Frank’s body clenching as his cock pulses. Patrick shoves forward as best he can, and then Frank fucking _squeaks_ , and starts to come. His head is thrown back again, mouth open in a silent scream, spine arched beautifully, pearls of white shooting across the artwork littering his body.

Between the convulsing grasp of Frank’s body around him and the sight of him coming so magnificently undone, all Patrick can do is roll his hips, press as deep into Frank as he can, and let the twitching aftershocks of Frank’s orgasm lure him over the edge. He growls it into the thick air of the bedroom before collapsing against the other man, sated and soaking wet and panting. Frank’s limbs wrap around him and hold him close as the two of them come down, exchanging sloppy, gentle kisses and whispers of sweet promises, sweeter nothings.

The last candle burns out, and around them, the apartment goes dark.

*

It’s two days after Valentine’s, and Patrick is behind the counter at Vaughn’s, trying to decide if he should call his cheese guy and bitch about not getting any Swiss this week, or leave it as a bargaining chip for a discount on his next order. Frank is beside him, idly sipping a coffee and flipping through the latest issue of Guitar World. Gabe, William, and Vicky are the only customers in the diner, crowded around one of the tables trying to plan out the St. Patrick’s Day parade, but also surreptitiously watching their lovey-dovey display.

Every now and then, Patrick looks up at Frank and they smile stupidly at each other. When Patrick has to walk by to get to the coffee decanter, he drags his fingers along the small of Frank’s back to feel him shiver. When Frank comes over to find a pen to circle some pedal he wants to buy, he presses a kiss to the nape of Patrick’s neck. Patrick grins dreamily at him and thinks about how he can’t wait for his shift to be over so he can drag Frank upstairs and suck his cock or bend him over the couch, and staunchly ignores the stares from across the room.

That is, until Travie and Hayley wander in for the night shift and both immediately start fake gagging. Frank laughs, unashamed, and Patrick gives them the finger.

“You guys are cute,” Hayley says, “but I’m struggling to come to terms with the PDA.”

“Seriously, this is like finding out your dad does porn or something,” Travie agrees, side-stepping the smack that Patrick aims at his shoulder and retreating into the kitchen. He calls back to them, “Some shit is better left to the imagination, dude!”

Frank smacks a kiss to his cheek. “Don’t worry, baby, they’re all just jealous.”

The bell above the door chimes out, and the next thing Patrick knows, Mikey and Pete are sliding onto the stools in front of him. There’s an empty plate in front of Pete, piled with food scraps and bunched up napkins that Patrick’s been ignoring, but he grabs it now to clear the space for him, turning toward the bus bin he keeps under the coffee maker. Frank and Mikey do some weird high five bro-hug thing in greeting, chattering away immediately, and Patrick zones in just long enough to hear Mikey say, “Yeah, so… I guess we should share the big news.”

Patrick stops, turning back to the pair of them curiously. Mikey’s face is flushed with laughter and excitement, Pete’s a matching shade of red as he stares bashfully at the countertop.

Then Pete looks up at him, right at him, and says, “We’re engaged.”

The plate shatters against the linoleum.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dun dun DUN.
> 
> Sorry I haven't had a chance to respond to the comments on the last chapter. I love you all! Thank you so much for reading and taking the time to leave some nice words. <3

**Author's Note:**

> Story and chapter titles from "Reflecting Light" by Sam Philips


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